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STANDARD 
JTERATURE SERIES 


)ouble Number 60 


December, 1904 


A 1 ALE OF TWO CITIES 

BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 


Abridged and Edited with Notes and Introduction by 
MARGARET COULT 

Teacher of English in the Newark High School 

& 

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THE SPY By J. Fenimore Cooper 

THE PILOT By J. Fenimore Cooper 

BOB KOY By Sir Walter Scott 

THE ALHAMBRA By Washington Irving: 

CHRISTMAS STORIES By Charles Dickens 

ENOCH ARDEN and Other Poems By Alfred Tennyson 

KENILWORTH By Sir Walter Scott 

THE DEER8LAYER By J. Fenimore Cooper 

LADY OF THE LAKE By Sir Walter Scott 

HOR8E-8HOE ROBINSON By John P. Kennedy 

THE PRISONER OF CIIILLON By Lord Byron 

HAROLD By Sir E. Bulwer-Lytton 

GULLIVER’S TRAVELS By Jonathan Swift 

PAUL DOMBEY By Charles Dickens 

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A TALE OF TWO CITIES ....By Charles Dickens 


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A FRENCH NOBLEMAN OF THE 18tH CENTURY 


STANDARD LITERATURE SERIES 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 

\\ 


ABRIDGED AND EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTION BY 

MARGARET COULT 

TEACHER OF ENGLISH IN THE NEWARK HIGH SCHOOL 


* 


UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 


NEW YORK BOSTON NEW ORLEANS 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Vwo Copies Received 



JAN 4 1905 

Oou*ri*ni cmry 

iw>. //, 'foS~ 

TOUSS XXC. Noi 

/ C (a C / (p 

COPY B» 


*** 2778 


a 


Copyright, 1904, by 

UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 


sV> 


CONTENTS 


BOOK THE FIRST 

RECALLED TO LIFE 

PAGE 

I. The Mail 1 

II. The Night Shadows 6 

III. The Preparation .9 

IY. The Wine-Shop 20 

V. The Shoemaker 27 

BOOK THE SECOND 

THE GOLDEN THREAD 

I. Five Years Later 38 

II. A Disappointment 43 

III. Congratulatory 53 

IV. Hundreds of People 58 

V. Monseigneur in Town 69 

VI. Monseigneur in the Country 75 

VII. The Gordon's Head 79 

VIII. Two Promises 87 

IX. Sydney Carton 93 

X. Knitting 97 

XI. Still Knitting ... * 102 

XII. One Night 108 

XIII. Nine Days 110 

XIV. An Opinion 115 

XV. Echoing Footsteps 121 

XVI. Fire Rises 131 

XVII. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock 136 


IV 


CONTENTS 


BOOK THE THIRD 

THE TRACK OF A STORM 

PAGE 

I. In Secret 143 

II. The Grindstone 150 

III. The Shadow 155 

IV. Calm in Storm . .159 

Y. Beneath the Prison Window 162 

VI. Triumph 165 

VII. A Knock at the Door 171 

VIII. A Hand at Cards 174 

IX. The Game Made 181 

X. The Substance of the Shadow 189 

XI. Dusk 204 

XII. Darkness 207 

XIII. Fifty-two . . 214 

XIY. The Knitting Done 226 

XY. The Footsteps Die Out Forever 233 


INTRODUCTION 


I 

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION 

The “ two cities ” of this story are London and Paris. In 
the first chapter we find ourselves travelling, with Mr. Jarvis 
Lorry, from London, by the post-road, to Dover ; then across 
the Strait of Dover to Calais, on the French coast, and so by 
post-road again to Paris. The object of this journey of Mr. 
Lorry’s is to bring from Paris to London Dr. Manette, whose 
fortunes form the main thread of “A Tale of Two Cities.” 
But the fortunes of Dr. Manette and his family are closely 
interwoven with the events of the most interesting period in 
the history of France, the period of the French Revolution. 
Indeed, it was the fascination that the great drama of the 
French Revolution exercised over the imagination of Charles 
Dickens that impelled him to write “A Tale of Two Cities.” 
It will help you, therefore, in reading this book to know 
something about the French Revolution* 

Let us notice, first, that our story begins in 1775. Dickens 
is careful to tell us that it was in November of that year 
that Mr. Lorry started on his journey to Paris. You will 
remember that 1775 is the year of the breaking out of the 
American Revolution. You will remember, too, that France 
gave aid to the American cause in that struggle. Although 
the assistance given by the king of France was prompted 
rather by jealousy of England than by sympathy with the 
principles of the Revolution, there were many Frenchmen, 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


such as Lafayette, who believed in the cause of the American 
patriots. The success of the American Revolution encour- 
aged these men to strive for civil liberty in France. 

About the time that our revolution against George III. 
ended, there began a revolution of the French people against 
their king and his royal government. This struggle was 
very different from the American Revolution, as you will 
find in reading “ A Tale of Two Cities.” The difference is 
due partly to the fact that French character differs widely 
from English or American character, and partly to the fact 
that French history, through all its hundreds of years, had' 
worked out in a very different way from English history. 
The American colonists inherited from England the ideas 
that had been developed in English history. 

Very early in English history certain important principles 
of government were established. Of these, I wish to call 
your attention to just two. 

First, the principle was established that all taxes to raise 
money to carry on the government must be settled by 
Parliament, and not by the king. Now, Parliament being 
made up of men elected by the people as their representa- 
tives, when Parliament granted money to the king, it was 
really the people themselves who gave of their own posses- 
sions. This idea was not steadily carried out in English 
history, but, with occasional setbacks, it grew stronger and 
stronger, until the American Revolution was caused by the 
attempt of George III. to tax his colonies as he would not 
dare to tax Englishmen. In France, on the contrary, al- 
though there was early in its history an assembly, called the 
Estates-General, somewhat resembling the English Parlia- 
ment, claiming the power to tax, it became of so little im- 
portance that in three hundred years it was called but seven 
times, and the power to tax fell into the hands of the king. 
What is worse, the king, to gain favor with the nobles, ex- 
cused them from certain taxes, and the burden of taxation 
was carried by the common people! This very important 


INTRODUCTION 


vii 


question of taxation was settled very differently in England 
and. in France. 

The second point that we are to notice is this : in England 
it early became established that no man could be imprisoned 
without a just trial. Charles I. imprisoned his subjects 
without granting them legal trial ; but we all know what 
became of Charles I. Now, in France, the king had the 
power of committing persons to prison without trial, in fact, 
without statement of cause. Our story shows us how this 
power of “ arbitrary imprisonment ” could be used by those 
who enjoyed court favor for the punishment of their personal 
enemies. 

Thus you see that, while in England the liberties of the 
people had increased and the power of the king had lessened, 
in France more arid more power had centered in the king, 
until a certain French sovereign could say, “ The state ! I 
am the state ! ” 

You can realize, too, that a time would come when the 
French people, crushed down so long, would struggle to free 
themselves. That time came ; but, because the people had 
had no experience in governing themselves, and were, the 
most of them, very ignorant and very wretched, when they 
turned, it was much as an animal might, striking and rending 
and struggling, they hardly knew for what. 

But the revolutionists were not all the ignorant poor. 
There were leaders who were wiser and knew better what 
liberty means and how to gain it. There were, among the 
middle classes, many scholarly men, mostly lawyers, who had 
come to believe ardently that “ all men are created equal” 
and have “ unalienable rights.” Believing this, and seeing 
the awful inequality between the lives of the nobles and of 
the common people about them, they began to preach the 
doctrine of “liberty, equality, and fraternity.” Moreover, 
many, like Lafayette, of the old nobility had given up the 
privileges of their birth, and had joined the cause of the 
people. 


INTRODUCTION 


viii 

The king at this time was Louis XVI., not a bad man, but 
weak and hesitating. He was capable neither of under- 
standing the troubles of his country nor of making wise 
plans for relief. The two kings that had reigned before him 
had been selfish and despotic, spending vast sums of money 
upon their pleasures. So Louis XVI. was in great need of 
money for the necessary purposes of government. It was 
this need that brought about the first step of the French 
Eevolution. 

To devise means of raising money, Louis XVI. called to- 
gether the Estates-General, which had not met for over 
one hundred and seventy years. This body was made up of 
representatives elected from the three orders — or Estates, 
as they were called — of nobles, clergy, and commons. The 
Estates-General met at Versailles, just eleven miles from 
Paris — three hundred nobles, three hundred clergy, six hun- 
dred commons. It had been the custom, in former times, 
for each order to cast its vote separately ; then, as the 
nobles and clergy were sure to vote together, against the 
commons, the vote of the commons really counted for nothing. 
At this new meeting of the Estates-General, the commons 
demanded that the whole Assembly should vote together ; 
for, as a few of the nobles and a few of the clergy sympa- 
thized with them, they could then make their opinions felt. 
The king refused ; whereupon the commons declared them- 
selves the National Assembly of France, and refused to separ- 
ate until the wrongs of the state were set right. This was 
the French “Declaration of Independence.” 

The first show of force, corresponding to our Concord and 
Lexington, was far less admirable. 

The news of what was being done at Versailles stirred up 
the people of Paris, already seething with discontent. A 
committee, selected from the chief men, took the government 
of the capital into their hands ; the French Guards of Paris 
declared themselves on the side of the people, and were 
formed into a National Guard with Lafayette as their com- 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


mander; all the mob element of the great city surged to- 
gether, and, as if moved by a common impulse, attacked the 
Bastille, July 14, 1789. This great fortress-prison stood by 
the gate leading* to the suburb of St. Antoine. 1 So many 
people that had incurred the enmity of the kings or the 
nobles had worn out their lives within its grim walls, that it 
expressed to the people the hateful royal power. Our story 
gives a vivid picture of the attack upon the Bastille, of its 
fall, and of the slaughter of its defenders. 3 Shortly after- 
wards it was demolished, and the great key was sent by 
Lafayette to Washington, 3 as a symbol of the triumph of the 
spirit of liberty over despotism. The fall of the Bastille 
taught the people their power. 

Paris began the revolution, but the rest of France caught 
the fire. In the country districts, the peasants rose against 
their lords, burning the beautiful homes in which the nobles 
had ruled like petty kings. These sudden night-fires blazed 
all over France. 

The king had been holding his court at Versailles ; but, 
three months after the fall of the Bastille, a mob, composed 
mostly of women, streamed out to Versailles, and the next 
day brought the king, his wife, Marie Antoinette, and their 
little son, Louis, back to Paris with them, crying as they 
came, “ We have the baker, and the baker's wife, and the 
baker's boy ; now we shall have bread ! " The king, prom- 
ising to maintain the laws made by the new Assembly, took 
up his abode in the royal palace, but he was more like a pris- 
oner than a king. 

For almost two years after these events, there was compar- 
ative quiet. The National Assembly swept away the laws of 
unequal taxation and the unjust privileges of the nobles, and 

1 You will become acquainted with the St. Antoine (san-ton-twan') quarter of Paris as 
you read u A Tale of Two Cities.” We are introduced to it in Chapter IV., Book I. Out 
of this quarter came, in large part, the mob that stormed the Bastille (bas-tel'). 

2 A wonderful description of the taking of the Bastille is given in Carlyle’s “ The 
French Revolution,” Book V., Chapter VI. 

3 The key of the Bastille is now at Mount Vernon. 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


formed a new Constitution. During these two years, the 
French nobles, in great numbers, fled from France into Aus- 
tria and Prussia, where they gathered an army, and threatened 
France with invasion. 

Then the king, never sure of the right course to pursue, 
attempted to flee from Paris and join the exiled nobles in 
Austria. He got safely out of Paris, but was pursued, over- 
taken, and brought back. His position after this attempted 
flight was much worse than it had been before, for the people 
felt that he had played them false. He was made to feel his 
defenceless position when he was attacked in his own palace 
by the mob. 

The threatened invasion from Austria was effected in J uly 
of the year 1792. Prussians, Austrians, and exiled French 
nobles came over the border and advanced towards Paris. 
There was consternation and wild rage in Paris. A second 
time the mob invaded the king’s palace. This time he saved 
his life only by flight to the Assembly for protection ; the 
palace was pillaged and destroyed, and his faithful Swiss 
guard massacred. 

A month later the mob did a yet more terrible thing. The 
prisons of Paris had been crowded with captives that had 
been seized by the republican authorities on suspicion of giv- 
ing assistance to the invading nobles. From the second to 
the sixth of September, bands of assassins forced open the 
prisons, condemned their victims to death by mock trials, and 
butchered, it is said, over fourteen hundred prisoners. This 
terrible event, called in history the “ September massacre,” 
forms an important episode of “ A Tale of Two Cities ; ” it 
was in September, 1792, that Mr. Jarvis Lorry made his 
second fateful journey to Paris. 

Now events crowd close, and grow more and more terrible. 
In the same month that the massacres occurred, the king 
was imprisoned, and the country was declared a republic. In 
the first month of the next year he was tried and executed ; 
eight months later his queen shared his fate. His little son 


INTRODUCTION 


XI 


is supposed to have died in prison. A curious rumor arose 
that he was brought by some friends to America, and lived 
and died in Canada. 

The execution of the king caused almost all Europe to 
declare war against the republic, and all over France sprang 
up a great army, eager to fight for the new republic, and able 
to hold her foes at bay. 

By this time the wise and moderate party had been swept 
away by the fierce republicans. The year before, Lafayette 
had resigned his position and left France. From September, 
1793, to July, 1794, was the most awful part of the revolu- 
tion, so bloody that it is called the “ Feign of Terror” 

Three terrible men ruled Paris — men who seem almost 
like fiends : Danton, Marat, and Robespierre. 1 The guillo- 
tine was set up in what is now the Place de la Concord ; 2 pris- 
oners by forties and fifties at a time were sent to their doom 
by trials that were a mockery of justice. These scenes in 
Paris were repeated in other cities of France. 

Finally the frenzy of the Reign of Terror wore itself out. 
All three of the leaders came to violent ends. Marat was 
assassinated, Danton and Robespierre were guillotined. 

When the leaders of the Terror fell, the more moderate 
party came into power. Then Napoleon arose, and for a 
time lorded it over France, and almost over Europe. After 
his fall, through various changes, the present Republic of 
France was established, in 1871. 

Our story takes us only to 1793, but in the closing para- 
graphs there is a suggestion of the outcome of the French 
Revolution in the establishment of the present Republic. 3 

1 Danton (don-tori'), Marat (ma-ira/), Robespierre (rObs-pyar'). You will find striking 
descriptions of these three men in Victor Hugo’s “Ninety-three,” Part II., Book II., 
Chapter I. 

2 Place de la Concord (plas de la kSn-kord'). This square was first called the Place 
Louis XV., and was ornamented by a statue of that monarch. In 1792, this statue was 
torn down, a plaste- figure of Liberty, near which was the guillotine, was erected in its 
place, and the name of the square was changed to Place de la Guillotine. The present 
name dates from 1795. 

3 Teachers who wish books of reference upon the French Revolution will find a satis' 
factory brief account pf the revolution and its causes in Adams’s “ The Growth of the 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


II 

SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STUDY OF THE STORY 

Two men may make the same journey, and one gain much 
and one gain little ; because one has travelled with open eyes 
and a keen mind, while the other has gone about sleepy-eyed 
and sleepy-headed. Reading a book is somewhat like mak- 
ing a journey. To get the good of a book, you must see and 
think and feel. Charles Dickens said that when he was 
writing “ A Tale of Two Cities ” he lived through the ex- 
periences of the people that make the story. If you read the 
book rightly, you will almost do the same thing. 

First, let us say a word in regard to seeing. 

Here is a company of people whom the author saw very 
clearly, and whom he wished us to see. In the opening of 
the book, “the first of the persons with whom this history 
has business ” is introduced to us ; then another and another 
actor passes before the eyes of our mind, until presently we 
are living in a little world of people created by the power of 
the author. Observe these people carefully. The author 
usually gives one main description of each character. Notice 
under what circumstances he gives this main description. 
He chooses the time carefully always. Sometimes he gives 
the description as soon as he introduces the character ; some- 
times he waits until he has brought his character to a good 
effective point, and then he describes him. Besides the main 
description, there are usually little descriptive touches, 
thrown in here and there, that deepen the impression, and 
make the mental picture that we have formed grow clearer 
and clearer. 

To illustrate, let us take the case of Lucie Manette, a 
character of importance in the story. We get our first pict- 

French Nation ” (Macmillan), Chapters XV. and XVI., and a fuller treatment of the 
subject in “The French Revolution,” by Morris (Scribner & Co.). Both of these books 
contain copious references to other authorities, the latter having, in an appendix, an ex- 
tended Bibliography of the French Revolution, 


INTRODUCTION 


Xlll 


ure of Lucie as she rises to greet Mr. Lorry, in her room in 
the Dover inn, as described in the third chapter of the first 
book. Dickens gives first an impression of the room in 
which she stands, a room dark and sombre. Against this 
background we have the picture of a young girl, slight and 
fair. One detail of her face is made very impressive, a little 
puckering of her brows that gives her a half questioning, half 
anxious expression. If nothing were considered besides the 
picture produced, the contrast between the dark room and 
the fair girl would be very effective, but in this case I think 
that there is a particular appropriateness in the dark back- 
ground given to the figure of Lucie Manette ; it is in accord 
with the shadow cast over her young life. The impression 
that we get of fair hair is made clearer and clearer as we see 
her again and again ; the puckering of her brows we watch 
for ; on two important occasions it tells us much. I think 
that you will find that Dickens is fond of emphasizing some 
peculiarity of the face or the form of a character, and using 
that peculiarity to individualize him by. 

Now, let us reduce this slight study of the description of 
Lucie Manette to a few questions. When and where does 
Dickens give us the first clear picture of Lucie Manette ? 
What is the background of the figure ? Is there anything 
particularly appropriate in this background ? — This ques- 
tion, of course, you could not answer until you had finished 
the book. What are the main impressions given by the de- 
scription of Lucie ? Are these impressions made deeper 
through the rest of the book ? 

These same questions might be asked about any or all of 
the important characters of the story. It would not be right 
for the author to describe unimportant characters so fully. 

There are many other things, besides people, for us to see. 
Take for instance the mail-coach on the road to Dover, that 
is described so vividly in the first chapter . 1 In this descrip- 


1 An interesting contrast to this description will be found in Tom Pinch’s journey to 
London, as set forth in “Martin Chuzzlewit.” This journey of Tom Pinch is pub- 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


tion Dickens makes us feel and hear as well as see. We can 
feel the mist and cold of the night, hear the lumbering of the 
coach, the rattle of the harness, and the tread of the passen- 
gers as they plod up the hill. It is a fine thing to be able to 
make things seem as real as Dickens has made them in this 
description. You will be interested to notice the words that 
he uses to make us hear various sounds. Go over the chapter 
and write a list of these words. 

After you have thought over the chapter, try to describe 
some mode of travelling that you know well, and see whether 
you can find the right words to make it seem real. Suppose 
you try one of the following subjects : a trolley-car ride on a 
very warm evening, a ride in an empty hay-cart, a ride in a 
country stage, a ride in a milk-wagon, a ride on a “ bob ” 
down a very slippery hill. Other subjects will suggest them- 
selves to you. Whatever one you choose, be sure that it is 
something that you know well, and that, in describing, you 
use words that make clear the feeling of the weather and 
the sounds that accompany the journeying. 

We have spoken about seeing ; now let us consider for a 
moment how we may bring thought to bear upon our story. 

One way in which you may use your heads while you are 
reading is by tracing all the threads of the story. You 
will find that there are many threads, now separating, now 
curiously coming together, and all of them uniting to make 
a piece of the strangely woven fabric of life. It will be a 
good thing for you to follow out all these lines of the story, 
and to see how the author has brought them all together. 
When you see this, you will begin to realize what a work 
of art it is to write a truly good novel. 

As we did in the case of the descriptions, let us make a 
plan of study. The chief threads of the story, we may say, 
are three : the Dr. Manette thread, the “ French nobleman ” 
thread, and the French Revolution thread. Each thread is 
made up of different strands. The three threads unite in a 

lished in “The Booklovers’ Magazine,” November, 1903, with colored plates, illus- 
trating different phases of English mail-coach travel. 


INTRODUCTION 


XV 


very interesting way. The story begins with the Dr. Manette 
thread, and through the whole of the first book we are hardly 
aware of any other, but in truth we are picking up the first 
little strands of the French Revolution thread. In the first 
chapter of the second book, a new character is introduced 
rather abruptly, a young man by the name of Charles Darnay, 
and for a little while we do not know what his connection 
with the rest of the story may be. In chapter five of the 
second book, the thread that I call the “ French nobleman” 
thread begins. We meet a certain marquis in Paris, then 
follow him to his country estate. Here we find that the 
Charles Darnay thread is a strand of the 66 French noble- 
man” thread of the story. As the story progresses, the 
“ French nobleman ” thread unites closely with the Dr. 
Manette part of the story, and as closely with the French 
Revolution part. Now, let us ask ourselves some questions. 
But, before we are ready to answer these questions, we 
should make a list of the characters that centre around 
Dr. Manette, of those that centre around the marquis, and of 
those that centre around the wine-shop keeper and his wife, 
who are the main figures of the French Revolution part of 
the story. Now, we may ask these questions : What is the 
connection between Dr. Manette and the wine-shop keeper ? 
between the marquis and Dr. Manette ? between the mar- 
quis and the wine-shop keeper ? In what chapter of the 
story do we discover each one of these connections ? Have 
any hints been given of the connection before it is made 
known ? What effect has each connection upon the story ? 
Who is the strongest evil influence in the story ? Who is 
the strongest good influence ? 

A second direction in which thought should be exercised 
in reading this book is in learning what the French Revolu- 
tion was, and what brought it about. Your sympathies will 
probably be divided about the rights and the wrongs of the 
French Revolution. Try to see the subject fairly. Remem- 
ber that it is not upon the people of the poor quarters of 
Paris, and the like of them in other parts of France, in the 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


latter part of the eighteenth century, that the responsibility 
for the Reign of Terror rests, but rather upon the French 
government for centuries before. Remember, too, that the 
deeds of the Paris mob are a warning that no government 
is safe that contains within it the elements out of which 
mobs are made. 

Let me mention a third subject for thought. It is a mat- 
ter of interest to note some of the peculiarities of Charles 
Dickens as a writer. You will probably observe with surprise 
two things in this book : first, that capitals are occasionally 
used as you have been taught not to use them ; second, that 
the punctuation, also, is in some places contrary to rule. 
For instance, if you should write, “ That's a Blazing strange 
answer ! " your teacher would no doubt strike out the capital 
B. Again, if you should write, “ Perhaps. Perhaps see the 
great crowd of people, with its rush and roar, bearing down 
upon them, too ! " you would probably receive some such 
criticism as this : “ Do not punctuate as a sentence what is 
not a sentence." When Dickens capitalized “ blazing," he 
did it to make the word emphatic ; when he wrote “ per- 
haps" as if it were a sentence, he again stepped aside from 
the ordinary usage in order to make the word “perhaps" 
strike the reader most forcibly. Writers of assured reputa- 
tion may take such liberties, capitalizing for emphasis, and 
punctuating for rhetorical and not for grammatical reasons. 
Collect from your book at least five examples of each of 
these usages. 

Seeing, thinking, mid feeling. — Some directions may be 
given in regard to seeing and thinking ; but, when we come 
to feeling, all that we can say is that clear seeing and 
honest thinking bring with them right feeling. Feeling that 
is not based upon such seeing and thinking is quite as apt to 
be wrong as right. 

And now enter upon your story of “ A Tale of Two 
Cities"; and may you, like the man travelling through an in- 
teresting country with open eyes and keen mind, find both 
pleasure and profit. 


PRONUNCIATION OF FRENCH NAMES 

occurring in A Tale of Two Cities , as given by the Century Dictionary. 


Abbaye (a-ba'). 

Bastille (bas-tel'). 

Beauvais (bo-va ). 

Calais (ka-la ) 

carmagnole (kar-ma-nyol'). 
chateau (sha-to') 

Conciergerie (kon-syerzh-re'). 
Defarge (da-farzh'). 
Evremonde (a-vra-mond). 
Jacques (zhak). 


a as in fat. 
a “ “ fate, 
a “ father, 
e “ met. 
e “ “ mete, 
e “ “ her. 


messieurs (me-sye'). 
m on seigneur (mon-sa-nyer'). 
monsieur (me-sye'). 

Notre Dame (no'tr dam). 

Place de la Concorde (plas d e la kon 
kord'). 

Saint Antoine (san-ton-twan'). 

St. Evremonde (san-ta-vra-mond'). 
St. Germain (san-zher-man'). 


o as in not. 

5 “ “ note. 

6 “ “ nor. 

h — the nasal sound of n — peculiar 
to French — nearly ng in sing. 


I 



A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


BOOK THE FIRST 

RECALLED TO LIFE 

CHAPTER I. 

THE MAIL. 

It was the Dover Road that lay, on a Friday night late 
in November, before the first of the persons with whom 
this history has business. The Dover Road lay beyond 
the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter’s Hill. He 
walked uphill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the 
rest of the passengers did ; not because they had the least 
relish for walking exercise under the circumstances, but 
because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the 
mail were all so heavy, that the horses had three times 
already come to a stop. 

With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed 
their way through the thick mud, floundering and stum- 
bling between-whiles as if they were falling to pieces at 
the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them 
and brought them to a stand with a wary “ Wo-ho! so-ho, 
then ! ’ ’ the near leader violently shook his head and 
everything upon it — like an unusually emphatic horse, 
denying that the coach could be got up the hill. 

Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding 


2 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped 
to the cheek-bones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots. 
Not one of the three could have said, from anything he 
saw, what either of the other two was like. In those 
days travellers were very shy of being confidential on a 
short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber , 1 
or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every 
posting-house and alehouse could produce somebody in 
“ the Captain’s ” pay, it was the likeliest thing upon the 
cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to him- 
self, that Friday night in November, one thousand seven 
hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter’s Hill, 
as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, 
beating his feet, and keeping an eye and a hand on the 
arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss 2 lay at 
the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on 
a subslratum 3 of cutlass. 

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that 
the guards suspected the passengers, the passengers sus- 
pected one another and the guard, and the coachman w r as 
sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he could 
w r ith a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two 
Testaments that they were not fit for the journey. 

“ Wo-ho ! ” said the coachman. “ So, then ! One more 
pull and you’re at the top. I have had trouble enough to 
get you to it! — Joe! ” 

“ Halloa! ” the guard replied. 

“ What o’clock do you make it, Joe ? 

“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.” 

“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and 

1 Notice the condition of travel: the coach, which we learn to know, inside and out, 
before we finish our story; the bad roads; th° fear of highway-robbers. 

2 An old-fashioned Jgun, short, flaring at the muzzle, holding a number of bails or 
slugs, and intended to be used at short range, without any particular aim. 

3 Under-layer. 


THE MAIL 


3 


not atop of Shooter’s yet? Tst! Yah! Get on with 
you! ” 

The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most 
decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the 
three other horses followed suit. Once more the Dover 
mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers 
squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the 
coach stopped, and they kept close company with it. If 
any one of the three had had the hardihood to propose to 
another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and dark- 
ness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting 
shot instantly as a highwayman. 

The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. 
The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard gob 
down to skid 1 the wheel for the descent, and open the 
coach door to let the passengers in. 

“ Tst! Joe! ” cried the coachman in a warning voice, 
looking down from his box. 

“What do you say, Tom?” 

They both listened. 

“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.” 

“/ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, 
leaving his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his 
place. “ Gentlemen ! In the king’s name, all of you ! 2 ” 

With this hurried adjuration , 3 he cocked his blunder- 
buss, and stood on the offensive. 

The passenger booked by this history was on the coach 
step, getting in; the two other passengers were close be- 
hind him, and about to follow. He remained on the step, 
half in the coach and half out of it; they remained in the 
road below him. 


1 A skid is a brake. 

2 Probably he meant, “ In the King’s name, help to defend the mail-coach! 

3 An earnest appeal. 


4 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously 
up the hill. 

“ So-ho! ” the guard sang out as loud as he could roar. 
“ Yo there! Stand! I shall fire! ” 

The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much 
splashing and floundering, a man’s voice called from the 
mist, “ Is that the Dover mail? ” 

“ Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. 
“ What are you? ” 

“Is that the Dover mail? ” 

“ Why do you want to know? ” 

“I want a passenger, if it is.” 

“ What passenger? ” 

“ Mr. Jarvis Lorry.” 

Our passenger showed in a moment that it was his 
name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other 
passengers eyed him distrustfully. 

“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice 
in the mist, “ because, if I should make a mistake, it could 
never be set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the 
name of Lorry answ r er straight.” 

“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, 
with mildly quavering speech. “ Who wants me? Is it 
Jerry? ” 

(“I don’t like Jerry’s voice, if it is Jerry,” growled 
the guard to himself. “He’s hoarser than suits me, is 
Jerry.”) 

“Yes, Mr. Lorry.” 

‘ ‘ What is the matter ? ” 

“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. 
and Co.” 

“ I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, get- 
t : down into the road — assisted from behind more 

sv v than politely by the other two passengers, who 


THE MAIL 


5 


immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and 
pulled up the window. “He may come close; there’s 
nothing wrong.” 

“I hope there ain’t, but I can’t make so ’nation sure 
of that, ’ ’ said the guard, in gruff soliloquy . 1 4 ‘ Hallo you ! ’ ’ 

“’Well! And hallo you! ” said Jerry, more hoarsely 
than before.” 

“Come on at a foot-pace; d’ye mind me? And if 
you’ve got holsters 2 to that saddle o’ yourn, don’t let me 
see your hand go nigh ’em. For I’m a devil at a quick 
mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. 
So now let’s look at you.” 

The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the 
eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail where the 
passenger stood. The rider stooped, and, casting up his 
eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded 
paper. 

“ Guard! ” said the passenger in a tone of quiet business 
confidence. 

The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of 
his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye 
on the horseman, answered curtly, “ Sir.” 

“There is nothing to apprehend . 3 I belong to Tell- 
son’s Bank. You must know Tellson’s 4 Bank in London. 
I am going to Paris on business. A crown 5 to drink. I 
may read this? ” 

“ If so be as you’re quick, sir.” 

He opened it in the light of the coach lamp on that 
side, and read — first to himself and then aloud: “ ‘ Wait 
at Dover for Mam’selle.’ It’s not long, you see, guard. 
Jerry, say that my answer was, recalled to life.” 

1 Speaking to himself. 2 Case for pistols. 3 Fear. 

4 Tellson’s Bank has a good deal to do with the story. It is a sort of connectin -ui, 
between London and Paris. 

5 An English coin worth $1.22 of our money. 


6 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Jerry started in his saddle. “ That’s a Blazing strange 
answer, too,” said he at his hoarsest. 

“Take that message back, and they will know that I 
received this as well as if I wrote. Make the best of your 
way. Good-night. ’ ’ 

With those words the passenger opened the coach door 
and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, 
who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses 
in their boots, and were now making a general pretence 
of being asleep. 

The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of 
mist closing round it as it began the descent. 

“ Tom! ” softly over the coach roof. 

“ Hallo, Joe! ” 

“ Did you hear the message? ” 

“ I did, Joe.” 

“ What did you make of it, Tom ? ” 

“ Nothing at all, Joe.” 

“That’s a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I 
made the same of it myself. ’ ’ 

CHAPTEK II. 

THE NIGHT SHADOWS. 

While the messenger trotted back with the message he 
was to deliver to the night Avatchman in his box at the 
door of Tellson’s Bank, by Temple Bar , 1 the mail-coach 
lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious 
way. 

1 Temple Bar wasionce one of the gates or barriers of London, but the city grew beyond 
it, and now it is in the heart of London. It takes its name from the Knights Templars, 
who, at one time, had a great establishment there. Only their church is left. The place 
is now occupied by two societies of lawyers, called the Inner and the Middle Temple. 
From this fact, English lawyers are sometimes called Templars. 


THE NIGHT SHADOWS 


7 


As the Bank passenger — with an arm drawn through 
the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him 
from pounding against the next passenger, and driving 
him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt 
— nodded in his place with half-shut eyes, the little coach 
windows, and the coach lamp dimly gleaming through 
them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became 
the Bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle 
of the harness was the chink of money. Then the strong- 
rooms underground at Tellson’s opened before him, and 
he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly 
burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and 
sound, and still, just as he had last seen them. 

But, though the Bank was almost always with him, and 
though the coach (in a confused way) was always with 
him, there was another current of impression that never 
ceased to run all through the night. He was on his way 
to dig some one out of a grave. 

Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed them- 
selves before him was the true face of the buried person, 
the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were 
all the faces of a man of live and forty by years, and they 
differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in 
the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. But the 
face was in the main one face, and every head was pre- 
maturely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger 
inquired of this spectre, — 

“ Buried how long? ” 

The answer was always the same: “ Almost eighteen 
years.” 

“ You had abandoned all hope of being dug out? ” 

“ Long ago.” 

“You know that you are recalled to life ? ” 

“ They tell me so.” 


8 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ I hope yon care to live ? ” 

“I can’t say. ” 

“ Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see 
her?” 

The answers to this question were various and contra- 
dictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, “Wait! It 
would kill me if I saw her too soon.” Sometimes it was 
given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, “ Take 
me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, 
and then it was, “I don’t know her. I don’t under- 
stand.” 

After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his 
fancy would dig, and dig, dig — now with a spade, now 
with a great key, now with his hands — to dig this 
wretched creature out. 

Dig — dig — dig — until an impatient movement from 
one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up 
the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern 
strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until 
his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away 
into the Bank and the grave. 

“Buried how long?” 

“ Almost eighteen years.” 

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out? ” 

“ Long ago.” 

The words were still in his hearing as just spoken — dis- 
tinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his 
life — when the weary passenger started to the conscious- 
ness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night 
were gone. 

He lowered the window, and looked out at the ris- 
ing sun. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky 
was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beau- 
tiful. 



AFTER THE CAPTURE OF THE BASTILLE, JULY 14 , 1789 . 






































































THE PREPARATION 


9 


“ Eighteen years! ” said the passenger, looking at the 
sun. “ Gracious Creator of Day ! To be buried alive for 
eighteen years ! ’ ’ 


CHAPTER III. 

THE PREPARATION. 

When the mail got successfully to Dover in the course 
of the forenoon, the head drawer 1 at the Royal George 
Hotel opened the coach door as his custom was. He did 
it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from 
London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an 
adventurous traveller upon. 

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller 
left to be congratulated; for the two others had been set 
down at their respective roadside destinations. The mil- 
dewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, 
its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a 
larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking 
himself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy 
wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like 
a larger sort of dog. 

‘ ‘ There will be a packet 2 to Calais 3 to-morrow, drawer?” 

“ Yes, sir, if the weather holds, and the wind sets tol- 
erable fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about 
two in the afternoon, sir. Bed, sir? ” 

“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bed- 
room, and a barber . 5 ’ 

“ And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, 
if you please. Show Concord ! 4 Gentleman’s valise and 

1 We should say waiter. The word drawer comes from drawing wine from a cask. 

2 A boat, carrying mail, etc., (packet, package) at regular intervals. 

* Calais (ca-la'): port on the French coast, opposite Dover. 

4 The rooms of the old English inns were sometimes named. 


10 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


hot water to Concord. Pull off gentleman’s boots in 
Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch 
barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Con- 
cord! ” 

The Concord bedchamber being always assigned to a 
passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being 
always heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room 
had the odd interest for the establishment of the Royal 
George, that although but one kind of man was seen to 
go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. 
Consequently, another drawer, and two porters, and sev- 
eral maids, and the landlady were all loitering by acci- 
dent at various points of the road between the Concord 
and the coffee-room, when a gentleman 1 of sixty, form- 
ally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, 
but very well kept, with large square cuffs and large flaps 
to the pockets, passed along on his way to his breakfast. 

The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, 
than the gentleman in brown. His breakfast-table was 
drawn before the fire, and as he sat, ivith its light shining 
on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might 
have been sitting for his portrait. 

Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand 
on each knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous ser- 
mon under his flapped waistcoat. He had a good leg, 
and was a little vain of it, for his brown stockings fitted 
sleek and close, and were of a fine texture ; his shoes and 
buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He wore an odd 
little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head. 
His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his 
stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that 
broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail 

1 Look at this gentleman well ; we shall see much of him. Do you think, from the 
description, that he will have a good or a bad influence in the story ? 


THE PREPARATION 


11 


that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face habitu- 
ally suppressed and quieted was still lighted up under the 
quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes. He had a 
healthy color in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, 
bore few traces of anxiety. 

Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting 
for his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off asleep. The ar- 
rival of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, 
as he mov3d his chair to it, — 

“ I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who 
may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for 
Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman 
from Tellson’s Bank. Please to let me know.” 

“ Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honor to entertain 
your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and for- 
wards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of 
travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company’s House.” 

“Yes. We are quite a French house, as well as an 
English one. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, sir. Hot much in the habit of such travelling 
yourself, I think, sir? ” 

“ Hot of late years. It is fifteen years since we — since 
I — came last from France. ” 

“ Indeed, sir! ” 

When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went 
out for a stroll on the beach. 

As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, 
which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the 
French coast to be seen, became again charged with mist 
and vapor, Mr. Lorry’s thoughts seemed to cloud too. 
When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, 
awaiting his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his 
mind was busily digging, digging, digging in the live red 
coals. 


12 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured 
out his last glassful of wine, when a rattling of wheels 
came up the narrow street, and rumbled into the inn yard. 

He set down his glass untouched. 16 This is Mam’- 
selle! ” said he. 

In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce 
that Miss Manette had arrived from London, and would 
be happy to see the gentleman from Tellson’s. 

“ So soon? ” 

Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, 
and required none then, and was extremely anxious to 
see the gentleman from Tellson’s immediately, if it suited 
his pleasure and convenience. 

The gentleman from Tellson’s had nothing left for it 
but to empty his glass, and follow the waiter to Miss Ma- 
nette’s apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished 
with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. 
These had been oiled and oiled, until the two tall candles 
on the table in the middle of the room were reflected on 
every leaf. 

Mr. Lorry, having got past the two tall candles, saw 
standing to receive him, by the table between them and 
the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a 
riding cloak, and still holding her straw travelling hat 
by its ribbon in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, 
slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of 
blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and 
a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how 
young and smooth it was) of lifting and knitting itself 
into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, 
or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed attention, 
though it included all the four expressions — as his eyes 
rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed be- 
fore him of a child whom he had held in his arms on the 


THE PREPARATION 


13 


passage across that very 'Channel, one cold time, when 
the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high. The like- 
ness passed away, and he made his formal bow to Miss 
Manette. 

“ Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant 
young voice: a little foreign in its accent, but a very lit- 
tle indeed. 

“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the 
manners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow 
again, and took his seat. 

“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, in- 
forming me that some intelligence — or discovery — ” 

“ The word is not material, miss; either word will do. ” 

“ — Respecting the small property of my poor father, 
whom I never saw — so long dead — ” 

Mr. Lorry moved in his chair. 

“ — Rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, 
there to communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so 
good as to be despatched to Paris for the purpose.” 

“ Myself.” 

“As I was prepared to hear, sir.” 

She courtesied to him (young ladies made courtesies in 
those days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that 
she felt how much older and wiser he was than she. He 
made her another bow. 

“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered 
necessary, by those who know, and who are so kind as 
to advise me, that I should go to France, and that as I 
am an orphan, and have no friend who could go with 
me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to 
place myself, during the journej 7 , under that worthy 
gentleman’s protection. The gentleman had left London, 
but I think a messenger was sent after him to beg the 
favor of his waiting for me here.” 


14 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted 
with the charge. I shall be more happy to execute it.” 

“ Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. 
It was told me by the Bank that the gentleman would 
explain to me the details of the business, and that I 
must prepare myself to find them of a surprising nature. 
I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally 
have a strong and eager interest to know what they 
are.” 

‘ ‘ Naturally, ’ 5 said Mr. Lorry. “Yes — I — ” 

After a pause he added, again settling the crisp flaxen 
wig at the ears, — 

“It is very difficult to begin.” 

He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. 

“ Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a busi- 
ness charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, 
don’t heed me any more than if I was a speaking machine 
— truly, I am not much else. I will, with your leave, re- 
late to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.” 

“Story!” 

He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had re- 
peated, when he added in a hurry, “Yes, customers: in 
the banking business we usually call our connection our 
customers. He was a French gentleman ; a scientific gen- 
tleman; a man of great acquirements — a Doctor.” 

“Not of Beauvais 1 ? ” 

“ Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette , 2 your 
father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur 
Manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in 
Paris. I had the honor of knowing him there. I was at 
that time in our French House, and had been — oh! 
twenty years. 


1 Beauvais (bO-va'): a town 43 miles northwest of Paris. 

2 Monsieur (me-sye') : literally, my lord, answering to the English Mr. 


THE PREPARATION 


15 


“ At that time — I may ask, at what time, sir? ” 

“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married an 
English lady — and I was one of the trustees.” 

“ But this is my father’s story, sir; and I begin to 
think ” — the curiously roughened forehead was very in- 
tent upon him — “ that when I was left an orphan through 
my mother surviving my father only two years, it was 
you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it 
was you.” 

Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confid- 
ingly advanced to take his, and he put it with some cere- 
mony to his lips. 

“Miss Manette, it was I. So far, miss (as you have 
remarked), this is the story of your regretted father. 
How comes the difference. If your father had not died 
when he did — Don’t be frightened! How you start! ” 

She did indeed start. And she caught his wrist with 
both her hands. 

“ Pray,” said Mr. Lorry in a soothing tone, “ pray con- 
trol your agitation — a matter of business. As I was say- 
ing, if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had sud- 
denly and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited 
away; if it had not been difficult to guess to what dread- 
ful place, though no art could trace him; if he had an 
enemy in some compatriot 1 who could exercise a privi- 
lege 2 that I, in my own time, have known the boldest 
people afraid to speak of in a whisper, across the water 
there; for instance, the privilege of filling up blank 
forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of 
a prison for any length of time; if his wife had implored 
the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings 

1 Fellow-countryman. 

2 The privilege that Mr. Lorry here refers to with such horror is a terrible power, and 
could not be possible in any country where there is true liberty. 


16 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of him, and all quite in vain ; — then the history of your 
father would have been the history of this unfortunate 
gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais. ” 

“ 1 entreat you to tell me more, sir.” 

“ I will. I am going to. You can bear it ? ” 

“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave 
me in at this moment.” 

‘ £ Y ou speak collectedly, and you — are collected. That’s 
good.” (Though his manner was less satisfied than his 
words. ) ‘ ‘A matter of business. Kegard it as a matter of 

business — business that must be done. Now, if this 
Doctor’s wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, 
had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little 
child was born — ” 

“ The little child was a daughter, sir? ” 

£ c A daughter. A — a — matter of business — don’t be 
distressed. Miss, if the poor lady had suffered so in- 
tensely before her little child was born, that she came to 
the determination of sparing the poor child the inherit- 
ance of any part of the agony she had known the pains 
of, by rearing her in the belief that her father was dead — 
No, don’t kneel! In Heaven’s name, why should you 
kneel to me? ” 

“For the truth. Oh, dear, good, compassionate sir, 
for the truth! ” 

“ A — matter of business. You confuse me, and how 
can I transact business if I am confused?” 

She sat so still when he had very gently raised her, that 
she communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry. 

u That’s right, that’s right. Courage! Business! You 
have business before you ; useful business. Miss Manette, 
your mother took this course with you 1 ! And when she 

1 You see that here Mr. Lorry drops his fiction and speaks directly to Miss Manette. 
Why did he begin as he did? 


THE PREPARATION 


17 


died — I believe broken-hearted — having never slackened 
her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two 
years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, 
without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty 
whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or 
wasted there through many lingering years . ' 5 

As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring 
pity, on the flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to him- 
self that it might have been already tinged with gray. 

“ There has been no new discovery of money, or of any 
other property ; but — •” 

He felt his wrist clutched closely, and he stopped. 

“ — But he has been — been found. He is alive. 
Greatly changed, it is too probable; almost a wreck, it 
is possible; though we will hope the best. Still, alive. 
Your father has been taken to the house of an old ser- 
vant in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him, 
if I can : you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest, com- 
fort.” 

A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through 
his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as 
if she were saying it in a dream, — 

“ I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost — 
not him! ” 

“ Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress 
upon it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention: 
“ he has been found under another name; his own, long 
forgotten or long concealed. It would be worse * than 
useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek 
to know whether he has been for years overlooked, or al- 
ways designedly held prisoner. It would be worse than 
useless now to make any inquiries, because it would be 
dangerous. Better not to mention the subject, anywhere 
or in any way, and to remove him — for awhile at all 
2 


18 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


events — out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, 
and even Tellson’s, important as they are to French 
credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about me 
not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a 
secret service altogether. My credentials , 1 entries, and 
memoranda are all comprehended in the one line, 4 Re- 
called to Life ; 5 which may mean anything. But what is 
the matter ? She doesn’t notice a word ! Miss Manette ! ’ ’ 

Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in 
her chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible. So 
close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach 
himself, lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out 
loudly for assistance without moving. 

A wild-looking woman, whom, even in his agitation, 
J\Ir. Lorry observed to be all of a red color, and to have 
red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight- 
fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful 
bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good mea- 
sure, too, or a great Stilton cheese, came running 2 into 
the room in advance of the inn servants, and soon settled 
the question of his detachment from the poor young lady 
by lay ing a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him 
flying back against the nearest wall. 

(“ I really think this must be a man! ” was Mr. Lorry’s 
breathless reflection, simultaneously 3 with his coming 
against the wall.) 

“ Why, look at you all! ” bawled this figure, address- 
ing the inn servants. “Why don’t you go and fetch 
things, instead of standing there staring at me? I am 
not so much to look at, am I? Why don’t you go and 


1 Papers that prove who a person is and that he has a right to do certain things. 

2 The person who enters the story in this emphatic manner ends her career therein 
with equal emphasis, as you will see later. 

3 At the same time. 


THE PREPARATION 


19 


fetch things’? I’ll let you know, if you don’t bring smell- 
ing-salts, cold water, and vinegar quick, I will! ” 

There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, 
and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her 
with great skill and gentleness: calling her “ my pre- 
cious! ” and “my bird! ” and spreading her golden hair 
aside over her shoulders with great pride and care. 

4 ‘ And you in brown ! ’ ’ she said, indignantly turning to 
Mr. Lorry; “couldn’t you tell her what you had to tell 
her without frightening her to death ? Look at her, with 
her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call that 
being a Banker? ” 

Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted 1 by a ques- 
tion so hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a 
distance, while the strong woman, having banished the 
inn servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting 
them know” something not mentioned if they stayed 
there staring, recovered her charge, and coaxed her to 
lay her drooping head upon her shoulder. 

“ I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry. 

“ No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling 
pretty ” 

“ I hope,” said Mr. Lorry after another pause of feeble 
sympathy and humility, “ that you accompany Miss Ma- 
nette to France? ” 

“ A likely thing, too ! ” replied the strong woman. “ If 
it was ever intended that I should go across salt water, do 
you suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an 
island? ” 

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis 
Lorry withdrew to consider it. 

1 “ Put out,” as we sometimes say. 


20 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE WINE-SHOP. 

A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken in 
the street. The accident had happened in getting it out 
of a cart; the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops 
had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of 
the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut shell. 

All the people within reach had suspended their busi- 
ness, or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the 
wine. The rough, irregular stones of the street, point- 
ing every way, and designed, one might have thought, 
expressly to lame all living creatures that approached 
them, had dammed it into little pools; these were sur- 
rounded, each by its own jostling group or crowd, accord- 
ing to its size. Some men kneeled down, made scoops of 
their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help women 
who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had 
all run out between their fingers. 

The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of 
the narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine , 1 in Paris, 
where it was spilled. 

The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most oth- 
ers in its appearance and degree, and the master of the 
wine-shop had stood outside it, in a yellow waistcoast and 
green breeches, looking on at the struggle for the lost wine. 
“It’s not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug of the 
shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let 
them bring another.” So saying, he entered the wine- 
shop. 

1 Saint Antoine (san-ton-twan'): a quarter of Paris inhabited by the lower classes. It 
was at that time the haunt of many discontented and vicious, as well as very pool peo- 
ple. It lies just to the east of the place where the great prison of the Bastile stood. 


THE WINE-SHOP 


21 


This wineshop-keeper was a bull-necked, martial-look- 
ing man of thirty, and he should have been of a hot tem- 
perament, for, although it was a bitter day, he wore no 
coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder. His shirt- 
sleeves w r ere rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare 
to the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on 
his head than his own crisply curling, short, dark hair. 
He was a dark man altogether, with good eyes, and a 
good bold breadth between them. Goodhumored-looking 
on the whole, but implacable-looking 1 too; evidently a 
man of strong resolution, and a set purpose; a man not 
desirable to be met rushing down a narrow pass with a 
gulf on either side, for nothing would turn the man. 

Madame Defarge , 2 his wife, sat in the shop behind the 
counter as he came in. Madame Defarge was a stout 
woman, of about his own age, with a watchful eye that 
seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand heavily 
ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great compo- 
sure of manner. There was a character about Madame 
Defarge, from which one might have predicated that she 
did not often make mistakes against herself in any of the 
reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge, 
being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a 
quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though 
not to the concealment of her large ear-rings. Her knit- 
ting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick her 
teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right 
elbow supported by her left hand, Madame Defarge said 
nothing when her lo r d came in, but coughed just one 
grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of 
her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the 

1 Not tojbe easily pacified, if once aroused. 

2 Defarge (da-farzh'). Mark this woman well. She is very important in two ways; 
first, because she influences the story; second, because there were many women in 
France like her at this time. 


22 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that he would 
do well to look round the shop among the customers for 
any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped 
over the way. 

The wineshop-keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about 
until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young 
lady, who were seated in a corner. Other company were 
there: two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three 
standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of 
wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice 
that the elderly gentleman said in a look to the young 
lady, “ This is our man.” 

Monsieur Defarge feigned not to notice the two strang- 
ers, and fell into discourse with the triumvirate of cus- 
tomers who were drinking at the counter. 

“How goes it, Jacques ?” 1 said one of these three to 
Monsieur Defarge. “Is all the spilt wine swallowed? ” 

“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge. 

When this interchange of Christian name was effected, 
Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick, 
coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows 
by the breadth of another line. 

“It is not often,” said the second of the three, ad- 
dressing Monsieur Defarge, “that many of these miser- 
able beasts know the taste of w T ine, or of anything but 
black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques? ” 

“ It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned. 

At this second interchange of the Christian name, Ma- 
dame Defarge, still using her toothpick with profound 
composure, coughed another grain of cough, and raised 
her eyebrows by the breadth of another line. 

1 Jacques (zhak'): same as English, John. These men call each other Jacques, because 
Jacques is so common a name among the workingmen in France that the name stands 
for a peasant or workingman. A revolt of the peasants against the nobles that occurred 
in 1358 is called in history the Jacquerie. 


THE WINE-SIIOP 


23 


The last of the three now said his say, as he put down 
his empty drinking- vessel, and smacked his lips. 

“ Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that 
such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard 
lives they live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques? ” 

“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Mon- 
sieur Defarge. 

This third interchange of the Christian name was com- 
pleted at the moment when Madame Defarge put her 
toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled 
in her seat. 

“ Hold then! True! ” muttered her husband. “ Gen- 
tlemen — my wife! ” 

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame 
Defarge, with three flourishes. 

“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his 
bright eye observantly upon her, “good-day.” 

They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes 
of Monsieur Defarge were studying his wife at her knit- 
ting, when the elderly gentleman advanced from his cor- 
ner and begged the favor of a word. 

“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly 
stepped with him to the door. 

Their conference was very short, but very decided. Al- 
most at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and be- 
came deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute, when 
he nodded and went out. The gentleman then beckoned 
to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame 
Defarge knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, 
and saw nothing. 

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the 
wine-shop thus, joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway. 
It opened from a little black courtyard, and was the gen- 
eral public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by 


24 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved en- 
try to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge 
bent down on one knee to the child of his old master, and 
put her hand to his lips. It was a gentle action, but not 
at all gently done: a very remarkable transformation had 
come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humor 
in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had be- 
come a secret, angry, dangerous man. 

“ It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to be- 
gin slowly.” Thus Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, 
to Mr. Lorry, as they began ascending the stairs. 

“ Is he alone? ” the latter whispered. 

“ Alone! God help him, who should be with him?” 
said the other in the same low voice. 

66 Is he always alone, then ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Of his own desire? ” 

“ Of his own necessity. As he was when I first saw 
him after they found me, and demanded to know if I 
would take him, and, at my peril, be discreet — as he was 
then, so he is now.” 

“ He is greatly changed ? ” 

“ Changed! ” 

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall 
with his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. Ho direct 
answer could have been half so forcible. Mr. Lorry’s 
spirits grew heavier and heavier as he and his two com- 
panions ascended higher and higher. 

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and 
more crowded parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; 
but, at that time, it was vile indeed to unaccustomed and 
unhardened senses. 

At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they 
stopped for the third time. There was yet an upper stair- 






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FRENCH CHATEAU OF THE PERIOD. 






























































THE WINE-SHOP 


25 


case, of a steeper inclination, to be ascended before the 
garret story was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, 
always going a little in advance, turned himself about 
here, and carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he 
carried over his shoulder, took out a key. 

“ The door is locked, then, my friend ? said Mr. Lorry, 
surprised. 

“ Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. 

“ You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gen- 
tleman so retired ? 5 ’ 

“ I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur De- 
farge whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily. 

“Why?” 

“~Why! Because he has lived so long locked up that 
he would be frightened — rave — tear himself to pieces — 
die — come to I know not what harm — if his door was left 
open.” 

“Is it possible? ” exclaimed Mr. Lorry. 

“Is it possible?” repeated Defarge bitterly. “Yes. 
And a beautiful world we live in when it is possible, and 
when many other such things are possible, and not only 
possible, but done — done, see you ! — under that sky 
there every day. Let us go on.” 

This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, 
that not a word of it had reached the young lady’s ears. 

They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was 
short, and they were soon at the top. There, with an 
admonitory gesture to keep them back, Defarge stooped, 
and looked in through the crevice in the wall. Soon rais- 
ing his head again, he struck twice or thrice upon the door 
— evidently with no other object than to make a noise 
there. With the same intention, he drew the key across 
it three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the 
lock, and turned it as heavily as he could. 


26 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he 
looked into the room and said something A faint voice 
answered something. Little more than a single syllable 
could have been spoken on either side. 

He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them 
to enter. Mr. Lorry got his arm securely round the 
daughter’s waist, and held her; for he felt that she was 
sinking. 

“A — a — -a — business, business!” he urged, with a 
moisture that was not of business shining on his cheek. 
“ Come in, come in! ” 

“ I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering. 

“ Of it? What?” 

“ I mean of him. Of my father.” 

Rendered in a manner desperate by her state, and by 
the beckoning of their conductor, he drew over his neck 
the arm that shook upon his shoulder, lifted her a little, 
and hurried her into the room. He set her down just 
within the door, and held her, clinging to him. 

Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on 
the inside, took out the key again, and held it in his hand. 
All this he did methodically, and with as loud and harsh 
an accompaniment of noise as he could make. Finally, he 
walked across the room with a measured tread to where 
the window was. He stopped there, and faced round. 

The garret, built to be a depository for fire- wood and 
the like, was dim and dark: for the window, of dormer 
shape, was in truth a door in the roof, with a little crane 
over it for the hoisting up of stores from the street: un- 
glazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any 
other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, 
one-lialf of this door was fast closed, and the other was 
opened but a very little w^ay. Such a scanty portion of 
light was admitted through these means, that it was dif- 


THE SHOEMAKER 


27 


ficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit 
alone could have slowly formed in anyone the ability to 
do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, 
work of that kind was being done in the garret ; for, with 
his back towards the door, and his face towards the win- 
dow where the keeper of the wine- shop stood looking at 
him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping 
forward and very busy, making shoes. 

CHAPTER Y. 

THE SHOEMAKER. 

“ Good-day! ” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at 
the white head that bent low over the shoemaking. 

It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice re- 
sponded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance, — 

“ Good-day! ” 

“ You are still hard at work, I see ? ” 

After a long silence, the head was lifted for another 
moment, and the voice replied, “ Yes — I am working.” 
This time a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the ques- 
tioner, before the face had dropped again.. 

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. 
It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though 
confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. 
Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of 
solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a 
sound made long and long ago. 

Some minutes of silent 'work had passed, and the hag- 
gard eyes had looked up again: not with any interest or 
curiosity, but with a dull mechanical perception, before- 
hand, that the spot where the only visitor they were 
aware of had stood was not yet empty. 


28 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze 
from the shoemaker, “to let in a little more light here. 
You can bear a little more? ” 

The shoemaker stopped his work; looked, with a vacant 
air of listening, at the floor on one side of him; then, sim- 
ilarly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward 
at the speaker. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“You can bear a little more light ? ” 

“ I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest 
shadow of a stress upon the second word.) 

The opened half-door was opened a little further, and 
secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light 
fell into the garret, and showed the workman, with an 
unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labor. His 
few common tools and various scraps of leather were at 
his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, rag- 
gedly cut, but not very long, a hollow face, and exceed- 
ingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his 
face would have caused them to look large, under his yet 
dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they 
had been really otherwise; but they were naturally large, 
and looked unnaturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay 
open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered 
and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose 
stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a 
long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to 
such a dull uniformity of parchment yellow, that it would 
have been hard to say which was which. 

He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, 
and the very bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, 
with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work. He 
never looked at the figure before him without first looking 
down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had 


THE SHOEMAKER 


29 


lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never 
spoke without first wandering in this manner, and for- 
getting to speak. 

“ Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day? ” 
asked Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day ? ” 

“I can’t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don’t 
know.” 

“ You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ Here is a visitor.” 

The shoemaker looked up as before, but without re- 
moving a hand from his work. 

“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who 
knows a well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him 
that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.” 

Mr. Lorry took it in his hand. 

“ Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s 
name.” 

There was a longer pause than usual before the shoe- 
maker replied — 

“ I forget what it was you asked me. What did you 
say? ” 

“ I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for mon- 
sieur’s information? ” 

“ It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s walking-shoe. 
It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have 
had a pattern in my hand. ’ ’ He glanced at the shoe with 
some little passing touch of pride. 

“ And the maker’s name? ” said Defarge. 

How that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles 
of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the 
knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and 


30 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and so on, in 
regular changes, without a moment’s intermission. 

“ Did you ask me for my name ? ” 

“ Assuredly I did.” 

“ One Hundred and Five, North Tower.” 

“Is that all?” 

“ One Hundred and Five, North Tower.” 

With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, 
he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken. 

“You are not a shoemaker by trade ? ” said Mr. Lorry, 
looking steadfastly at him. 

“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I w r as not a 
shoemaker by trade. I — I learnt it here. I taught my- 
self. I asked leave to — ” 

He lapsed aw^ay, even for minutes, ringing those meas- 
ured changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes 
came slowly back, at last, to the face from which they had 
wandered; ivhen they rested on it, he started, and re- 
sumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, 
reverting to a subject of last night. 

“ I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much 
difficulty after a long while, and I have made shoes ever 
since.” 

As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been 
taken from him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly 
in his face — 

“ Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me ? ” 

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking 
fixedly at the questioner. 

“Monsieur Manette” — Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon 
Defarge’s arm — “do you remember nothing of this man ? 
Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no 
old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your 
mind, Monsieur Manette?” 


THE SHOEMAKER 


31 


As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by 
turns, at Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long-obliterated 
marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of 
the forehead gradually forced themselves through the 
black mist that had fallen on him. They were over- 
clouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but, 
they had been there. And so exactly was the expression 
repeated on the fair young face of her who had crept 
along the wall to a point where she could see him, that it 
looked as though it had passed, like a moving light, from 
him to her. 

“ Have you recognized him, monsieur ? ” asked Defarge 
in a whisper. 

“ Yes; for a moment. Hush! Let us draw further 
back. Hush! ” 

She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near 
to the bench on which he sat. 

Not a word was spoken, no a sound was made. She 
stood like a spirit beside him, and he bent over his work. 

It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change 
the instrument in his hand for his shoemaker’s knife. It 
lay on that side of him which was not the side on which 
she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to work 
again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He 
raised them and saw her face. 

He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while 
his lips began to form some words, though no sound pro- 
ceeded from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick 
and labored breathing, he was heard to say — 

“ What is this? ” 

With the tears streaming down her face, she put her 
two hands to her lips, and kissed them to him; then 
clasped them on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head 
there. 


32 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ You are not the jailer’s daughter? ” 

She sighed “No.” 

“ Who are you? ” 

Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down 
on the bench beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her 
hand upon his arm. A strange thrill struck him when 
she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the 
knife down softly as he sat staring at her. 

Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been 
hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Ad- 
vancing his hand by little and little, he took it up and 
looked at it. In the midst of the action he went astray, 
and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemak- 
ing. 

But, not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her 
hand upon his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it 
two or three times, as if to be sure that it was really there, 
he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and took 
off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached 
to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it con- 
tained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one 
or two long golden hairs, which he had, in some old day, 
wound off upon his finger. 

He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely 
at it. “ It is the same. How can it be ? When was it ? 
How was it ? ” 

As the concentrating expression returned to his fore- 
head, he seemed to become conscious that it was in hers 
too. He turned her full to the light and looked at her. 

“ She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night 
when I was summoned out — she had a fear of my going, 
though I had none — and, when I w r as brought to the 
North Tower, they found these upon my sleeve. ‘ You 
will leave me them ? They can never help me to escape 


THE SHOEMAKER 


33 


in the body, though they may in the spirit. ’ Those were 
the words I said. I remember them very well. ” 

He formed this speech with his lips many times before 
he could utter it. But when he did find spoken words 
for it, they came to him coherently, though slowly. 

“ How was this ? — Was it you f ” 

Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned 
upon her with a frightful suddenness. But she sat per- 
fectly still in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, “I 
entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not 
speak, do not move! ” 

“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?” 
His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went 
up to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died 
out, as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, 
and he refolded his little packet, and tried to secure it in 
his breast ; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook 
his head. 

“Ho, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It 
can’t be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the 
hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not 
a voice she ever heard. Ho, no. She was — and he was 
— before the slow years of the Horth Tower — ages ago. 
What is your name, my gentle angel? ” 

Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell 
upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon 
his breast. 

“ Oh, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and 
who my mother was, and who my father, and how I never 
knew their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at 
this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell 
you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and 
to bless me. Kiss me, kiss me! Oh, my dear, my dear! ” 
His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, 


?A 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light 
of Freedom shining on him. 

“ Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears 
upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. Oh, 
see! Thank God for us, thank God” 

He had sunk in her arms, with his face dropped on her 
breast : a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremen- 
dous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that 
the two beholders covered their faces. 

When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, 
and his heaving breast and shaking form had long yielded 
to the calm that must follow all storms, they came for- 
ward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. 
She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie 
upon her arm; and her hair, drooping over him, cur- 
tained him from the light. 

“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her 
hand to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them after repeated 
blowings of his nose, “ all could be arranged for our leav- 
ing Paris at once, so that from the very door he could be 
taken away — ” 

“ But consider. Is he fit for the journey ? ” asked Mr. 
Lorry. 

“ More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, 
so dreadful to him.” 

“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look 
on and hear. “More than that; Monsieur Manette is, 
for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a car- 
riage and post-horses ? 5 5 

“That’s business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the 
shortest notice his methodical manners; “ and if business 
is to be done, I had better do it.” 

“ Then be so kind, urged Miss Manette, “ as to leave us 
here. If you wdll lock the door to secure us from inter- 


THE SHOEMAKER 


35 


ruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you 
come back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will 
take care of him until you return, and then we will remove 
him straight.” 

Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to 
this course, and in favor of one of them remaining. But, 
as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, 
but travelling papers ; 1 and as time pressed, for the day 
was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily 
dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and 
hurrying away to do it. 

Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her 
head down on the hard ground close at the father’s side, 
and watched him. The darkness deepened and deepened, 
and they both lay quiet until a light gleamed through 
the chinks in the wall. 

Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready 
for the journey, and had brought with them, besides trav- 
elling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine and hot 
coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the 
lamp he carried, on the shoemaker’s bench (there was 
nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and he and 
Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet. 

In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey 
under coercion , 2 he ate and drank what they gave him to 
eat and drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings 
that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to 
his daughter’s drawing her arm through his, and took — 
and kept — her hand in both of his own. 

They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first 
with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. 

1 Passports— papers identifying travelers and giving them permission to enter or to 
leave a country. 

2 Force. 


36 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible 
at any of the many windows; not even a chance passer- 
by was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion 
reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that 
was Madame Defarge — who leaned against the door-post, 
knitting, and saw nothing. 

The prisoner had got into the coach, and his daughter 
had followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested 
on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking 
tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge imme- 
diately called to her husband that she would go get them, 
and went, knitting, out of the lamp-light, through the 
court-yard. She quickly brought them down and handed 
them in; and immediately afterwards leaned against the 
door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. 

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “ To the 
Barrier ! J?1 The postilion 1 2 cracked his whip, and they 
clattered away under the feeble over-swinging lamps. 

Under the over-swinging lamps — swinging ever bright- 
er in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse — 
and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee- 
houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Sol- 
diers with lanterns at the guard-house there. “Your 
papers, travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the 
Officer,” said Defarge, getting down, and taking him 
gravely apart, “ these are the papers of monsieur inside, 
with the white head. ” “ It is well. Forward ! ” from the 
uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a 
short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, 
out under the great grove of stars. 

Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights the 


1 City-gate. 

2 The postilion rides one of the horses attached to a coach, and thus takes the place 
of a driver. 


THE SHOEMAKER 


37 


shadows of the night were broad and black. All through 
the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more 
whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry — sitting op- 
posite the buried man who had been dug out, and wonder- 
ing what subtle powers were forever lost to him, and what 
were capable of restoration — the old inquiry, — 

“ I hope you care to be recalled to life ? 5 ’ 

And the old answer, — 

“ I can’t say.” 


BOOK THE SECOND 


THE GOLDEN THREAD 

CHAPTER I. 

FIVE YEARS LATER. 

T kelson’s Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned 
place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty. 

Outside Tellson’s — never by any means in it, unless 
called in — was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and 
messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. lie 
was never absent during business hours, unless upon an 
errand. His surname was Cruncher, and he had received 
the added appellation of Jerry. 

The head of one of the regular indoor messengers at- 
tached to Tellson’s establishment was put through the 
door, and the word was given — 

“ Porter wanted! ” 

“ You know the Old Bailey 1 well, no doubt ? 55 said one 
of the oldest clerks to J erry the messenger. 

“ Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry in something of a dogged 
manner. “I do know the Bailey. ” 

“ Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry ? ” 

“ I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the 
Bailey. Much better,” said Jerry. 

“ Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, 

1 A famous London prison. 


FIVE YEARS LATER 


30 


and show the door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He 
will then let you in.” 

“ Into the Court, sir ? ” 

“ Into the Court.” 

“ Am I to wait in the Court, sir ? ” he asked. 

“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass 
the note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that 
will attract Mr. Lorry’s attention, and show him where 
you stand. Then what you have to do is, to remain there 
until he wants you.” 

“ Is that all, sir?” 

. “ That’s all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. 
This is to tell him you are there. ” 

As the ancient clerk deliberately folded the note, Mr. 
Cruncher remarked — 

“ I suppose they’ll be trying Forgeries this morning ? ” 

“ Treason! ” 

“ That’s quartering! ”* said Jerry. 

The messenger found out the door he sought, and handed 
in his letter through a trap in it. 

After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned 
on its hinges a very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry 
Cruncher to squeeze himself into Court. 

“ What’s on? ” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he 
found himself next to. 

“ Nothing yet. ” 

“ What’s coming on ? ” 

“The Treason case.” 

Mr. Cruncher’s attention was here diverted to the door- 
keeper, whom he saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with 
the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table, among the 
gentlemen 2 in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the 


1 This barbarous penalty was still inflicted as a punishment for treason. 
* Lawyers. 


40 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


prisoner’s counsel, who had a great bundle of papers be- 
fore him : and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman 
with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention, when 
Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed tc 
be concentrated on the ceiling of the Court. After some 
gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with 
his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, whe 
had stood up to look for him, and who quietly nodded, 
and sat down again. 

“ What’s he got to do with the case? 55 asked the man 
he had spoken Avith. 

“ Blest if I know,” said Jerry. 

“ What have you got to do with it, then, if a person 
may inquire ? ’ ’ 

“ Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry. 

The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir 
and settling down in the Court, stopped the dialogue. 
Presently the dock became the central point of interest. 
Two jailers, who had been standing there, went out, and 
the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar. 

Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman 
who looked at the ceiling, stared at him. 

The object of all this staring was a young man of about 
five and twenty, well grown and well -looking, with a 
sunburnt cheek and a dark eye. His condition was that of 
a young gentleman. He was plainly dressed in black, or 
very dark gray, and his hair, which was long and dark, 
Avas gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck: more 
to be out of his Avay than for ornament. He was quite 
self-possessed, bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet. 

Silence in the Court! Charles Darnay had yesterday 
pleaded Hot Guilty to an indictment denouncing him 
(with infinite jingle and jangle ) 1 for that he Avas a false 

1 The words here follow the phrasing of an indictment for treason. 






































































































FIVE YEARS LATER 


41 


traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, 
prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on 
divers occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted 
Lewis , 1 the French King, in his wars against our said se- 
rene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth; that was to say, 
by coming and going between the dominions of our said 
serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of 
the said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitor- 
ously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously, revealing to the 
said French Lewis what forces our said serene, illustrious, 
excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send to 
Canada and Korth America. This much Jerry made out 
with huge satisfaction, and arrived at the understanding 
that Charles Darnay stood there before him upon his 
trial; that the jury was swearing in; and that Mr. At- 
torney-General 2 was making ready to speak. 

The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being 
mentally hanged, beheaded, and quartered by everybody 
there, neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed 
any theatrical air in it. He stood with his hands resting 
on the slab of wood before him, so composedly, that they 
had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it was 
strewn. The Court was all bestrewn with herbs and 
sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against jail air 
and jail fever. 

Over the prisoner’s head there was a mirror, to throw 
the light down upon him. A change in his position mak- 
ing him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he looked 
up; and when he saw the glass his face flushed, and his 
right hand pushed the herbs away. 

1 When the American Revolution broke out, France, you remember, went to war with 
England. 

2 The Attorney-General is an officer who acts as lawyer for the state. He conducts 
cases against persons who are accused of offences against the state, as Charles Darnay 
was accused of treason. 


42 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


It happened that the action turned his face to that side 
of the Court which was on his left. About on a level 
with his eyes, there sat, in that corner of the Judge’s 
bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately 
rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of 
his aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him 
turned to them. 

The spectators saw in the two figures a young lady of 
little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evi- 
dently her father; a man of a very remarkable appearance 
in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a cer- 
tain indescribable intensity of face. 

His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his 
arm, as she sat by him, and the other pressed upon it. She 
had drawn close to him in her dread of the scene, and in 
her pity for the prisoner. 

The whisper went about, “ Who are they? ” 

“ Witnesses.” 

“For which side?” 

“ Against.” 

“ Against what side ? ” 

“ The prisoner’s.” 

The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direc- 
tion, recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked 
steadily at the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr. 
Attorney- General rose to spin 1 the rope, grind the axe, 
and hammer the nails into the scaffold. 


1 Do you know what the author means by this? 


FIVE YEARS LATER 


43 


> 


CHAPTER II. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury that 
the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old 
in the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of 
his life. That this correspondence with the public enemy 
was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or 
even of last year, or the year before. That it was certain 
the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit 
of passing and repassing between France and England, on 
secret business of which he could give no honest account. 
That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a 
person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to 
ferret out the nature of the prisoner’s schemes, and, struck 
with horror, to disclose them to his Majesty’s Chief Sec- 
retary of State and most honorable Privy Council. That 
the lofty example of this immaculate 1 and unimpeachable 2 
witness for the Crown, to refer to whom, however un- 
worthily, was an honor, had communicated itself to the 
prisoner’s servant, and had engendered in him a holy de- 
termination to examine his master’s table drawers and 
pockets, and secrete his papers. That the evidence of 
these two witnesses, coupled with the documents of their 
discovering that would be produced, would show the pris- 
oner to have been furnished with lists of his Majesty’s 
forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by 
sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habit- 
ually conveyed such information to a hostile power. That 
the proof would go back five years, and would show the 
prisoner already engaged in these pernicious missions 
within a few weeks before the date of the very first action 

1 Spotless. 2 Unquestionably honest. 


44 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


fought between the British troops and the Americans. 
That for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he 
knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as they 
knew they were), must positively find the prisoner Guilty, 
and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not. 

When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the 
Court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about 
the prisoner. When it toned down again, the unim- 
peachable patriot appeared in the w r itn ess-box : John 
Barsad, gentleman, by name. 

Having released his noble 1 bosom of its burden, he 
would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the 
wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting 
not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few ques- 
tions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite still look- 
ing at the ceiling of the Court . 2 

Had he ever been a spy himself? Ho, he scorned the 
base insinuation. What did he live upon? His prop- 
erty. Where was his property ? He didn’t precisely 
remember where it was. What was it? Ho business of 
anybody’s. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From 
whom? Distant relation. Very distant? Bather. Ever 
been in prison? Certainly not. Hever in a debtors’ 
prison ? 3 Didn’t see what that had to do with it. Hever 
in a debtors’ prison ? — Come, once again. Hever ? Yes. 
How many times? Two or three times. Hot live or 
six ? Perhaps. Of what profession ? Gentleman. Ever 
been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? Ho. 
Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly not; once received 
a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his 

1 What do you think of this “ noble ” John Barsad? Do you feel sure that he is “ im- 
maculate ” and “ unimpeachable? ” 

2 This is the cross-examination of John Barsad by the “ wigged gentleman,” Hr. 
Stryver, Charles Darney’s lawyer. What facts about John Barsad is Mr. Stryver trying 
to bring out? 

3 At this time people could be imprisoned for not paying their debts. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT 


45 


own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at 
dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxi- 
cated liar who committed the assault, but it was not 
true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by 
cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not 
more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of 
the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay* him? No. Not in reg- 
ular government pay and employment to lay traps? Oh 
dear, no! Or to do anything? Oh dear, no. Swear 
that? Over and over again. No motives but motives 
of sheer patriotism ? None whatever. 

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General 
called Mr. Jarvis Lorry. 

“ Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s Bank ? ” 
“lam.” 

“ On a certain Friday night in November, one thou- 
sand seven hundred and seventy -five, did business occasion 
you to travel between London and Dover by the mail ? 5 
“It did.” 

“ Were there any other passengers in the mail? ” 
“Two.” 

‘ ‘ Did they alight on the road in the course of the night ? 5 5 
“They did.” 

“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of 
those two passengers? ” 

“ I cannot undertake to say that he was. ” 

“ Does he resemble either of those two passengers ? ” 

“ Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, 
and we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to 
say even that.” 

“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Suppos- 
ing him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is 
there anything in his bulk and stature to render it un- 
likely that he was one of them ? 5 5 


46 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“No.” 

“ Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have 
you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before? ” 

“ I have.” 

“When?” 

“ I was returning from France a few days afterwards, 
and, at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet- 
ship in which I returned, and made the voyage with me.” 

“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any 
companion ? 5 ? 

“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. 
They are here.” 

“ Miss Manette! ” 

The young lady to whom all eyes had been turned be- 
fore, and were noAv turned again, stood up where she had 
sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn 
through his arm. 

“ Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.” 

To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth 
and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to 
be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, 
apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the star- 
ing curiosity that looked on could, for the moment, nerve 
him to remain quite still. His hurried right hand par- 
celled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of 
flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady 
his breathing shook the lips from which the color rushed 
to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again. 

“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Where? ” 

“ On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, 
and on the same occasion.” 

“You are the young lady just now referred to? ” 


A DISAPPOINTMENT 


47 


“ Oh! most unhappily I am.” 

The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the 
less musical voice of the Judge as he said, something 
fiercely: “Answer the questions put to you, and make 
no remark upon them.” 

“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the 
prisoner on that passage across the Channel? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Recall it.” 

In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began — 

‘ c When the gentleman came on board — ’ 5 

“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, 
knitting his brows. 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“ Then say the prisoner.” 

“ When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my 
father,” turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood be- 
side her, “ was much fatigued and in a very weak state of 
health. My father was so reduced, that I was afraid to 
take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on 
the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck 
at his side to take care of him. There were no other 
passengers that night but us four. The prisoner was 
so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could 
shelter my father from the wind and weather better than 
I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not 
understanding how the wind would set when we were 
out of the harbor. He did it for me. He expressed 
great gentleness and kindness for my father’s state, and 
I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of our be- 
ginning to speak together.” 

“ Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come 
on board alone? ” 

“No.” 


48 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ How many were with him? ” 

“ Two French gentleman.” 

“ Had they conferred together? ” 

“ They had conferred together until the last moment, 
when it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be 
landed in their boat.” 

“ Had any papers been handed about among them, 
similar to these lists? ” 

“ Some papers had been handed about among them, 
but I don’t know what papers.” 

“ Like these in shape and size? ” 

“ Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they 
stood whispering very near me: I did not hear what they 
said, and saw only that they looked at papers. ” 

“No w to the prisoner’s conversation, Miss Man- 
ette.” 

“ The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me 
— which arose out of my helpless situation — as he was 
kind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope,” burst- 
into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him harm 
to-day.” 

Buzzing from the blue-flies. 

“ He told me that he was travelling on business of a 
delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into 
trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under an 
assumed name. He said that his business had, within a 
few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals, 
take him backwards and forwards between France and 
England for a long time to come. ” 

“ Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? 
Be particular.” 

“ He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, 
and he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong 
and foolish one on England’s part. He added, in a jest- 


A DISAPPOINTMENT 


49 


ing way, that perhaps George Washington 1 might gain 
almost as great a name in history as George the Third. 
Bat there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was 
said laughingly, and to beguile the time.” 

Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of 
a chief actor in a scene of great interest, to whom many 
eyes are directed, will be unconsciously imitated by the 
spectators. Her forehead was painfully anxious and in- 
tent as she gave this evidence. Among the lookers-on 
there was the same expression in all quarters of the Court ; 
insomuch that a great majority of the foreheads there 
might have been mirrors reflecting the witness, when the 
Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremend- 
ous heresy about George Washington. 

Mr. Attorney- General now signified to my Lord that 
he deemed it necessary, as a matter of precaution and 
form, to call the young lady’s father, Doctor Manette. 
Who was called accordingly. 

“ Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you 
ever seen him before ? ” 

“ Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. 
Some three years, or three years and a half ago. ” 

“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on 
board the packet, or speak to his conversation with your 
daughter ? 5 ’ 

“ Sir, I can do neither.” 

“Is there any particular and special reason for your 
being unable to do either? ” 

He answered in a low voice, “ There is. ” 

“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long im- 
prisonment, without trial, or even accusation, in your 
native country, Doctor Manette ?” 


4 


1 This is interesting to us. 


50 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “ A 
long imprisonment.” 

“ Were you newly released on the occasion in ques- 
tion ? 5 ’ 

“ They tell me so.” 

“ Have you no remembrance of the occasion ? ” 

“None. My mind is a blank from some time — I 
cannot even say what time — when I employed myself, 
in my captivity, in making shoes, to the time when I 
found myself living in London with my dear daughter 
here. She had become familiar to me when a gracious 
God restored my faculties; but, I am quite unable even 
to say how she had become familiar. I have no remem- 
brance of the process. 

Mr. Attorney- General sat down, and the father and 
daughter sat down together. 

A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The 
object in hand being to show that the prisoner went down, 
with some fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on 
that Friday night in November five years ago, and got 
out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where 
he did not remain, but from which he travelled back some 
dozen miles or more, to a garrison and dockyard, and 
there collected information; a witness was called to 
identify him as having been, at the precise time required, 
in the coffee-room of a hotel in that garrison-and-dock- 
yard town, waiting for another person. The prisoner’s 
counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result, 
except that he had never seen the prisoner on any other 
occasion, when the wigged 1 gentleman who had all this 
time been looking at the ceiling of the Court, wrote a 
word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up, and 

1 This “ wigged gentleman,” whose name we learn a little farther on, is a person to be 
particularly noted. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT 


51 


tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the next 
pause, the counsel looked with great attention and curi- 
osity at the prisoner. 

“You say again you are quite sure that it was the 
prisoner ? ’ ’ 

The witness was quite sure. 

“ Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner? ” 

Not so like (the witness -said) as that he could be mis- 
taken. 

“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend 
there,” pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, 
4 4 and then look well upon the prisoner. How say you ? 
Are they very like each other? ” 

Allowing for my learned friend’s appearance being 
careless and slovenly, if not debauched , 1 they were suffi- 
ciently like each other to surprise, not only the witness, 
but everybody present, when they were thus brought 
into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my 
learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no very gra- 
cious consent, the likeness became much more remark- 
able. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner’s 
counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton 
(name of my learned friend) for treason? But Mr. Stry- 
ver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the wit- 
ness to tell him whether what happened once, might 
happen twice; whether he would have been so confident 
if he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner; 
whether he would be so confident, having seen it; and 
more. The upshot of which was to smash this witness 
like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to 
useless lumber. 

And now the jury turned to consider, and the great 
flies swarmed again. 


2 Dissipated. 


52 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling 
of the Court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, 
even in this excitement. 

Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the 
scene than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss 
Manette’s head dropped upon her father’s breast, he was 
the first to see it, and to say audibly: “Officer! look to 
that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. 
Don’t you see she will fall ? ” 

There was much commiseration for her as she was re- 
moved, and much sympathy with her father. As he 
passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a 
moment, spoke, through their foreman. 

They were not agreed, and wished to retire. 

Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and 
her father went out, now reappeared, and beckoned to 
Jerry, who, in the slackened interest, could easily get 
near him. 

“ Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. 
But keep in the way. You will be sure to hear w r hen the 
jury come in. Don’t be a moment behind them, for I 
w r ant you to take the verdict back to the Bank. You are 
the quickest messenger I know, and w r ill get to Temple 
Bar long before I can.” 

An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief - 
and-rascal-crowded passages below, even though assisted 
off with mutton-pies and ale. The hoarse messenger, un- 
comfortably seated on a form after taking that refection , 1 
had dropped into a doze, wffien a loud murmur and a rapid 
tide of people setting up the stairs that led to the Court 
carried him along with them. 

“Jerry! Jerry! ” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the 
door when he got there. 


Repast. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT 


53 


“Here, sir! It’s a fight to get back again. Here I 
am, sir! ” 

Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. 
“Quick! Have you got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hastily written on the paper was the word, “Ac- 
quitted. 5 ’ 

‘ c If you had sent the message, ‘ Recalled to Life, ’ 
again,” muttered Jerry as he turned, “I should have 
known what you meant, this time.” 

He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as think- 
ing, anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey; 
for the crowd came pouring out with a vehemence that 
nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into 
the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in 
search of other carrion. 


CHAPTER III. 

CONGRATULATORY. 

In the dimly lighted passages of the Court, Doctor 
Manette, Lucie Manette his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the soli- 
citor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood 
gathered around Mr. Charles Darnay — just released — 
congratulating him on his escape from death. 

It would have been difficult, by a far brighter light, to 
recognize in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and up- 
right of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. 
Yet no one could have looked at him twice without look- 
ing again, even though the opportunity of observation 
had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave 
voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fit- 
fully, without any apparent reason. While one external 


54 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, 
would always — as on the trial — evoke this condition 
from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to 
arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incom- 
prehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if 
they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille 1 thrown 
upon him by a summer sun, wdien the substance was three 
hundred miles away. 

Only his daughter had the power of charming this 
black brooding from his mind. She was the golden 
thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and 
to a Present beyond his misery. 

Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and grate- 
fully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly 
thanked. 

“ You have laid me under an obligation to you for life 
— in two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand. 

“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my 
best is as good as another man’s, I believe.” 

It clearly being incumbent on somebody to say, “ Much 
better,” Mr. Lorry said it. 

“ You think so ? ” said Mr. Stryver. “ Well, you have 
been present all day, and you ought to know. You are 
a man of business, too.” 

u And as such, ” quoth Mr. Lorry, “ I will appeal to Doc- 
tor Manette to break up this conference and order us all 
to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had 
a terrible day, w r e are worn out.” 

u Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I 
have a night’s work to do yet. Speak for yourself.” 

“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “ and for 


1 The famous prison in Paris where Dr. Manette was so long confined. This is the 
first mention of the “ dreadful place ” referred to by Mr. Lorry in his talk with Lucie 
Manette at Dover. 


CONGRATULATORY 


55 


Mr. Darnay , and for Miss Lucie, and — Miss Lucie, do 
you not think I may speak for us all ? ” He asked her 
the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father. 

His face had become frozen,- as it were, in a very curi- 
ous look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a 
frown of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. 
With this strange expression on him his thoughts had 
wandered away. 

“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on 
his. 

He slowly shook the shadow olf , and turned to her. 

“ Shall we go home, my father ? ” 

With a long breath, he answered, “Yes.” 

Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie 
Manette passed into the open air. A hackney coach was 
called, and the father and daughter departed in it. 

Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder 
his way back to the robing-room. Another person who 
had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with 
any one of them, but who had been leaning against the 
wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled 
out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach 
drove away. He now stepped up to Mr. Darnay. 

“ This is a strange chance that throws you and me to- 
gether. This must be a strange night to you, standing 
alone here with your counterpart on these street-stones? ” 

“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to 
belong to this world again.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it; it’s not so long since you were 
pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak 
faintly.” 

“ I begin to think I am faint.” 

“ Then why the devil don’t you dine ? I dined, myself, 
while those numskulls were deliberating which world you 


56 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


should belong to — this or some other. Let me show you 
the nearest tavern to dine well at.” 

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down 
Ludgate Hill to Fleet Street, and so, up a covered way, 
into a tavern. Here they were shown into a little room, 
where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength 
with a good plain dinner and good wine, while Carton 
sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate 
bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent man- 
ner upon him. 

“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, 
“w T hy don’t you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don’t 
you give your toast?” 

‘ ‘ What health ? What toast ? ’ ’ 

“ Why, it’s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, 
it must be, I’ll swear it’s there.” 

“Miss Manette, then!” 

“Miss Manette, then!” 

Looking his companion full in his face while he drank 
the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against 
the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then rang the bell 
and ordered in another. 

“ That’s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the 
dark, Mr. Darnay! ” he said, filling his new goblet. 

A slight frown and a laconic “Yes” were the an- 
swer. 

“ Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.” 

“ Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.” 

“ Do you think I particularly like you? ” 

“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly dis- 
concerted, “ I have not asked myself the question.” 

“ But ask yourself the question now.” 

“You have acted as if you do; but I don’t think you 
do.” 



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CONGRATULATORY 


57 


“ I don’t think I do,” said Carton. “ I begin to have 
a very good opinion of your understanding.” 

“ Nevertheless, ” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the 
bell, “ there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my 
calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood 
on either side.” 

Carton rejoined, “ Nothing in life! ” 

The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished 
him good-night. Without returning the wish, Carton 
rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in his 
manner, and said, “ A last word, Mr. Darnay; you think 
I am drunk ? ’ ’ 

“ I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.” 

“ Think? You know I have been drinking.” 

‘ ‘ Since I must say so, I know it. ’ ’ 

“ Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disap- 
pointed drudge, sir. [ care for no man on earth, and no 
man on earth cares for me. ’ ’ 

“Much to be regretted. You might have used your 
talents better.” 

“Maybe so, Mr. Darnay; maybe not. Don’t let your 
sober face elate you, however; you don’t know what it 
may come to. Good-night ! ’ ’ 

When he was left alone, this strange being took up a 
candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and 
surveyed himself minutely in it. 

“ Do you particularly like the man? ” he muttered at 
his own image; “ why should you particularly like a man 
who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like; 
you know that. Ah! confound you! What a change 
you have made in yourself! A good reason for taking 
to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away 
from, and what you might have been! Change places 
with him, and would you have been looked at by those 


58 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated 
face as he was ? Come on and have it out in plain words! 
You hate the fellow.” 

When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, 
the dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole 
scene like a lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were 
spinning round and round before the blast, as if the 
desert sand had risen far away, and the first spray of it 
in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city. 

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this 
man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw 
for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a 
mirage of honorable ambition, self-denial, and persever- 
ance. In the fair city of this vision there were airy gal- 
leries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, 
gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters 
of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it 
was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of 
houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neg- 
lected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. 

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight 
than the man of good abilities and good emotions, inca- 
pable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help 
and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and 
resigning himself to let it eat him away. 


CHAPTER IY. 

HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE. 

The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet 
street corner not far from Soho Square . 1 On the after- 
noon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four 

1 A well-known street in London. 


HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 


59 


months had rolled over the trial for treason, Mr. Jarvis 
Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell, 
where he lived, on his way to dine with the Doctor. After 
several relapses into business absorptions, Mr. Lorry had 
become the Doctor’s friend, and the quiet street corner 
was the sunny part of his life. 

Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old 
reputation, and its revival in the floating whispers of his 
story, brought him. His scientific knowledge brought 
him otherwise into moderate request, and he earned as 
much as he wanted. 

These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry’s knowl- 
edge, thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell 
of the tranquil house in the corner on the fine Sunday 
afternoon. 

“ Doctor Manette at home? ” 

Expected home. 

“ Miss Lucie at home ? ” 

Expected home. 

“Miss Pross at home?” 

Possibly at home. 

“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I’ll go 
upstairs.” 

Although the Doctor’s daughter had known nothing of 
the country of her birth, she appeared to have derived 
from it that ability to make much of little means which 
is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteris- 
tics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so 
many little adornments, of no value but for their taste 
and fancy, that its effect was delightful. The disposition 
of everything in the rooms, the arrangement of colors, 
the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in tri- 
fles, by delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense, were at 
once so pleasant in themselves, and so expressive of their 


GO 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking about him, 
the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, with some- 
thing of that peculiar expression which he knew so well 
by this time, whether he approved ? 

There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by 
which they communicated being put open that the air 
might pass freely through them all, Mr. Lorry walked 
from one to another. The first was the best room, and 
in it were Lucie’s birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, 
and work-table, and box of water-colors; the second v r as 
the Doctor’s consulting-room, used also as the dining- 
room; the third, changingly speckled by the rustle of the 
plane-tree in the yard, was the Doctor’s bedroom, and 
there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker’s bench 
and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor 
of the dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of 
Saint Antoine in Paris. 

“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking 
about, “ that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings by 
him! ” 

“ And why wonder at that? ” was the abrupt inquiry 
that made him start. 

It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, 
strong of hand, w r hose acquaintance he had first made at 
the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved. 

“I should have thought — ” Mr. Lorrj^ began. 

“Pooh! You’d have thought! ” said Miss Pross; and 
Mr. Lorry left off. 

“ How do you do ? ” inquired that lady then — sharply, 
and yet as if to express that she bore him no malice. 

“ I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, 
with meekness; “how are you? ” 

“ Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross. 

“ Indeed! ” 


HUNDREDS OF PEOFLE 


61 


“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much 
put out about my Ladybird.” 

“Indeed?” 

“For gracious sake say something else besides in- 
deed,’ or you’ll fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross, 
whose character (dissociated from stature) was shortness. 

“ Really, then? ” said Mr. Lorry as an amendment. 

“Really is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but 
better. Yes, I am very much put out.” 

“ May I ask the cause? ” 

“ I don’t want dozens of people, who are not at all 
worthy of Ladybird, to come here looking after her,” 
said Miss Pross. 

“Do dozens come for that purpose? ” 

“ Hundreds,” said Miss Pross. 

“ Dear me! ” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he 
could think of. 

“I have lived with the darling — or the darling has 
lived with me, and paid me for it; which she certainly 
should never have done, you may take your affidavit, if 
I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for 
nothing — since she was ten years old. And it’s really 
very hard,” said Miss Pross. 

Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. 
Lorry shook his head. 

4 ‘ All sorts of people, who are not in the least degree 
worthy of the pet, are always turning up,” said Miss 
Pross. “ When you began it — ” 

“ 1 began it, Miss Pross ? ” 

“ Didn’t you? Who brought her father to life? ” 

“ Oh! If that was beginning it — ” said Mr. Lorry. 

“It wasn’t ending it, I suppose? I say, when you 
began it, it was hard enough; not that I have any fault 
to find with Doctor Manette, except that he is not worthy 


62 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of such a daughter, which is no imputation on him, for it 
was not to be expected that anybody should be, under 
any circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly 
hard to have crowds and multitudes of people turning up 
after him (I could have forgiven him), to take Ladybird’s 
affections away from me.” 

Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he 
also knew her by this time to be one of those unselfish 
creatures — found only among women — who will, for 
pure love and admiration, bind themselves willing slaves. 
He knew enough of the world to know that there is noth- 
ing in it better than the faithful service of the heart. 

“ There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of 
Ladybird,” said Miss Pross; “ and that was my brother 
Solomon, if he hadn’t made a mistake in life.” 

Here again: Mr. Lorry’s inquiries into Miss Pross’s 
personal history had established the fact that her brother 
Solomon was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped her 
of everything she possessed, and had abandoned her in 
her poverty. 

“ As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are 
both people of business,” he said, w r hen they had got 
back to the drawing-room, and had sat down there in 
friendly relations, “ let me ask you — does the Doctor, 
in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time 
yet ? ’ ’ 

“ Never.” 

“Is it not remarkable that Doctor Manette, unques- 
tionably innocent of any crime, as we are well assured he 
is, should never touch upon that question ? I will not 
say with me, though he had business relations with me 
many years ago, and we are now intimate; I will say 
with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly at- 
tached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Be- 


HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 


63 


lieve me, Miss Pross, I don’t approach the topic with you 
out of curiosity, but out of zealous interest.” 

“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad’s 
the best you’ll tell me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the 
tone of the apology, “ he is afraid of the whole subject.” 

“Afraid?” 

“It’s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. 
It’s a dreadful remembrance. Besides that, his loss of 
himself grew out of it. Not knowing how he lost him- 
self, or how he recovered himself, he may never feel cer- 
tain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn’t 
make the subject pleasant, I should think.” 

It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked 
for. “True,” said he, “and fearful to reflect upon. 
Yet a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is 
good for Doctor Manette to. have that suppression always 
shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt, and the un- 
easiness it sometimes causes me, that has led me to our 
present confidence.” 

“ Can’t be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. 
“Touch that string, and he instantly changes for the 
worse. Better leave it alone. In short, must leave it 
alone, like or no like. Sometimes he gets up in the dead 
of the night, and will be heard by us overhead there, 
walking up and down, walking up and down, in his room. 
Ladybird has learned to know, then, that his mind is 
walking up and down, walking up and down, in his old 
prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, 
walking up and down, walking up and down, until he is 
composed. But he never says a word of the true reason 
of his restlessness to her, and she finds it best not to hint 
at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down to- 
gether, walking up and down together, till her love and 
company have brought him to himself.” 


04 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Notwithstanding Miss Pross’s denial of her own imag- 
ination, there was a perception of the pain of being monot- 
onously haunted by one sad idea in her repetition of the 
phrase, walking up and down, which testified to her pos- 
sessing such a thing. 

“ Here they are! ” said Miss Pross, rising to break up 
the conference; “and now we shall have hundreds of 
people pretty soon! ” 

It was a curious corner in its acoustical 1 properties, such 
a peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the 
open window, looking for the father and daughter whose 
steps he heard, he fancied they would never approach. 
Not only would the echoes die away, as though the steps 
had gone; but echoes of other steps that never came 
would be heard in their stead, and would die away for 
good when they seemed close at hand. However, father 
and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross was ready 
at the street-door to receive them. 

Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, 
and grim, taking off her darling’s bonnet when she came 
upstairs, and touching it up with the ends of her hand- 
kerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and folding her 
mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair 
with as much pride as she could possibly have taken in 
her own hair if she had been the vainest and handsomest 
of women. Her darling was a pleasant sight too, em- 
bracing her and thanking her, and protesting against her 
taking so much trouble for her — which last she only 
dared to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have 
retired to her own chamber and cried. The Doctor w r as 
a pleasant sight too, looking on at them, and telling Miss 
Pross how she spoiled Lud.e, in accents and with eyes 
that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and 

1 Relating to sound. 


HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 


65 


would have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was 
a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his little wig, 
and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in 
his declining years to a Home. But no Hundreds of peo- 
ple came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain 
for the fulfilment of Miss Pross’s prediction. 

Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. 

It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie pro- 
posed that the wine should be carried out under the plane- 
tree, and that they should sit there in the air. As every- 
thing turned upon her and revolved about her, they went 
out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down 
for the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. 

Still the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. 
Mr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting 
under the plane-three, but he was only One. 

Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. 
But Miss Pross suddenly became afflicted with a twitch- 
ing in the head and body, and retired into the house. 
She was not infrequently the victim of this disorder, 
and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of 
jerks.” 

The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked spe- 
cially young. The resemblance between him and Lucie 
was very strong at such times, and, as they sat side by 
side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting his arm 
on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace 
the likeness. 

He had been talking all day on many subjects, and 
with unusual vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said 
Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree — and he 
said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which 
happened to be the old buildings of London — “ have you 
seen much of the Tower? ” 


GG 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We 
have seen enough of it to know that it teems with interest; 
little more.” 

“/have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, 
with a smile, though reddening a little angrily, “in an- 
other character, and not in a character that gives facili- 
ties for seeing much of it. They told me a curious thing 
when I was there . 5 5 

“ What was that? ” Lucie asked. 

“ In making some alterations, the workmen came upon 
an old dungeon, which had been for many years built up 
and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered 
with inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners — 
dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner 
stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed 
to have gone to execution, had cut, as his last work, three 
letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, 
and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first they were 
read as D. I. C. ; but, on being more carefully examined, 
the last letter was found to be Gr. There was no record or 
legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many 
fruitless guesses were made what the name could have 
been. At length it was suggested that the letters were 
not initials, but the complete word, Dio. The floor was 
examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in 
the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of 
paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with 
the ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the 
unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he 
had written something, and hidden it away to keep it 
from the jailer.” 

“ My father! ” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill! ”* 

1 We shall know later what it was that this story brought to Dr. Manette’s mind. 
What is your idea? 


HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 


67 


lie had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. 
Ilis manner and his look quite terrified them all. 

“ Ho, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain 
falling, and they made me start. We had better go in.” 

He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was 
really falling in large drops, and he showed the back of 
his hand with raindrops on it. But he said not a single 
word in reference to the discovery that had been told of, 
and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. 
Lorry either detected, or fancied he detected, on his face, 
as it turned towards Charles Darnay, the same singular 
look that had been upon it when it turned towards him 
in the passages of the court-house. 

He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. 
Lorry had doubts of his business eye. 

Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit 
of the jerks upon her, and yet no Hundreds of people. 
Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he made only Two. 

The night was so very sultry, that although they sat 
with doors and windows open, they were over-powered 
by heat. When the tea-table was done with, they all 
moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the 
heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat 
beside her ; Carton leaned against a window. 

“The raindrops are still falling, large, heavy, and 
few,” said Doctor Manette. “It comes slowly.” 

“It comes surely,” said Carton. 

They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly 
do ; as people in a dark room, watching and waiting for 
Lightning, always do. 

There was a great hurry in the streets of people speed- 
ing away to get shelter before the storm broke; the won- 
derful corner for echoes resounded with the echoes of 
footsteps coming and going, yet not a footstep was there. 


68 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said 
Darnay, when they had listened for a while. 

“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. 
“ Sometimes I have sat here of an evening until I have 
fancied — but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me 
shudder to-night, when all is so black and solemn — ” 

“ Let us shudder too. We may know what it is ? ” 

“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only 
impressive as we originate them, I think; they are not 
to be communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of 
an evening listening, until I have made the echoes out to 
be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and 
by into our lives .’ 5 

“ There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, 
if that be so,” Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody 
way. 

The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them 
became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and 
re-echoed w r ith the tread of feet ; some, as it seemed, under 
the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some 
coming, some going, some breaking olf, some stopping 
altogether; all in the distant streets, and not one within 
sight. 

“ Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, 
Miss Manette, or are we to divide them among us? ” 

“ I don’t know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a fool- 
ish fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded my- 
self to it, I have been alone, and then I have imagined 
them the footsteps of the people who are to come into 
my life, and my father’s.” 

“I take them into mine! ” said Carton. “ I ask no 
questions and make no stipulations. There is a great 
crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette, and I see 
them! — by the Lightning.” He added the last words, 


HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 


69 


after there had been a vivid flash which had shown him 
lounging in the window. 

“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of 
thunder. “Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious!” 

It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it 
stopped him, for no voice could be heard in it. A mem- 
orable storm of thunder and lightning broke with that 
sweep of water, and there was not a moment’s interval in 
crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at mid- 
night. 

The great bell of St. Paul’s was striking one in the 
cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high- 
booted and bearing a lantern, set forth on his return pas- 
sage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches of 
road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. 
Lorry, mindful of footpads, always retained Jerry for 
this service : though it was usually performed a good two 
hours earlier. 

“ What a night it has been ! ” said Mr. Lorry. “ Good- 
night, Mr. Carton ! Good-night, Mr. Darnay ! Shall we 
ever see such a night again together ? ” 

Perhaps. Perhaps see the great crowd of people, with 
its rush and roar, bearing down upon them, too. 

CHAPTER Y. 

MONSEIGNEUR 1 IN TOWN. 

Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the 
Court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel 2 
in Paris. Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanctu- 


1 Monseigneur (m6n-sa-nyer'): my lord, a title given to princes and other great lords. 

2 This term is used by the French for a private city mansion. 


70 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Iioliests to the crowd of 
worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur 
was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could 
swallow a great many things with ease, and was by some 
sullen minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowing 
France; but his morning’s chocolate could not so much 
as get into the throat of Monseigneur without the aid of 
four strong men besides the Cook. 

Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous 
decoration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with 
fewer than two gold watches in his pocket, to conduct 
the happy chocolate to Monseigneur’s lips. One lackey 
carried the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a sec- 
ond milled and frothed the chocolate with the little in- 
strument he bore for that function ; a third presented the 
favored napkin ; a fourth (he of the two gold watches) 
poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Mon- 
seigneur to dispense with one of these attendants on the 
chocolate, and hold his high place under the admiring 
Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon his es- 
cutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by 
only three men ; he must have died of two. 

Monseigneur, having eased his four men of their bur- 
dens and taken his chocolate, caused the doors of the 
Holiest of Holiests to be thrown open, and issued forth. 
Then, what submission, w r hat cringing and fawning, what 
servility, what abject humiliation! • 

Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a 
whisper on one happy slave and a wave of the hand on 
another, Monseigneur affably passed through his rooms. 
There, Monseigner turned, and came back again, and so, 
in due course of time, got himself shut up in his sanctuary 
by the chocolate sprites, and was seen no more. 

There was soon but one person left of all the crowd, 


MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN 


71 


and he, with his hat under his arm and his snuff-box in 
his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his way out. 

“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last 
door on his way, and turning in the direction of the sanc- 
tuary, “to the Devil! ” 

With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he 
had shaken the dust from his feet, and quietly walked 
downstairs. 

He was a man 1 of about sixty, handsomely dressed, 
haughty in manner, and with a face like a fine mask. A 
face of a transparent paleness; every feature in it clearly 
defined; one set expression on it. The nose, beautifully 
formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top 
of each nostril. In those two compressions or dints, the 
only little change that the face ever showed, resided. 
They persisted in changing color sometimes, and they 
would be occasionally dilated and contracted by some- 
thing like a faint pulsation; then they gave a look of 
treachery and cruelty to the whole countenance. Ex- 
amined with attention, its capacity of helping such a 
look was to be found in the line of the mouth, and the 
lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much too horizontal 
and thin ; still, in the effect the face made, it was a hand- 
some face, and a remarkable one. 

Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into 
his carriage, and drove away. Hot many people had 
talked with him at the reception ; he had stood in a little 
space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer 
in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, 
rather agreeable to him to see the common people dis- 
persed before his horses, and often barely escaping from 
being run down. His man drove as if he were charging 

1 This man, whose name we learn later, is a type of the haughty French nobles that 
did so much to bring about the French Revolution. 


72 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought 
no check into the face or to the lips of the master. The 
complaint had sometimes made itself audible, even in 
that deaf city and dumb age, that in the narrow streets 
without footways, the fierce patrician 1 custom of hard 
driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a 
barbarous manner. But few cared enough for that to 
think of it a second time, and in this matter, as in all 
others, the common wretches were left to get out of their 
difficulties as they could. 

With a wild rattle and clatter, the carriage dashed 
through street, and swept round corners, with women 
screaming before it, and men clutching each other and 
clutching children out of its way. At last, swooping at 
a street corner by a fountain, one of its wheels came to a 
sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a num- 
ber of voices, and the horses reared and plunged. 

But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably 
would not have stopped ; carriages were often known to 
drive on and leave their wounded behind, and why not? 
But the frightened valet 2 had got down in a hurry, and 
there were twenty hands at the horses’ bridles. 

“ What has gone wrong ? ” said Monsieur, calmly look- 
ing out. 

A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from 
among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the base- 
ment of the fountain, and was dow r n in the mud and wet, 
howling over it like a wild animal. 

“ Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis! ” 3 said a ragged and 
submissive man, “it is a child.” 

“ Why does he make that abominable noise ? Is it his 
child?” 


1 Noble. 2 A man-servant, who attends on his master’s person. 
3 A noble, in rank intermediate between a count or earl and a duke. 


MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN 


73 


“ Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis — it is a pity — yes. ’ 5 

The fountain was a little removed ; for the street opened, 
wdiere it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. 
As the tall man suddenly got up from the ground and 
came running at the carriage, Monsieur the Marquis 
clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt. 

“ Killed! ” shrieked the man in wild desperation, ex- 
tending both arms at their length above his head, and 
staring at him. “ Dead! ” 

The people closed round and looked at Monsieur the 
Marquis. There was nothing revealed by the many eyes 
that looked at him but watchfulness and eagerness; there 
was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the peo- 
ple say anything; after the first cry they had been silent, 
and they remained so. The voice of the submissive man 
who had spoken was flat and tame in its extreme submis- 
sion. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all, 
as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes. 

He took out his purse. 

“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “ that you people 
cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One 
or the other of you is forever in the way. How do I 
know what injury you have done my horses ? See ! Give 
him that.” 

He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and 
all the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look 
down on it as it fell. The tall man called out again with 
a most unearthly cry, “ Dead! ” 

He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, 
for whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the miser- 
able creature fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, 
and pointing to the fountain, where some women were 
stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently 
about it They were as silent, however, as the men. 


74 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be 
a brave man, my Gaspard! It is better for the poor lit- 
tle plaything to die so than to live. It has died in a mo- 
ment without pain. Could it have lived an hour as hap- 
pily ? ” 

“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, 
smiling. “How do they call you?” 

“ They call me Defarge.” 

“ Of what trade ? ” 

“Monsieur the Marquis, vender of wine.” 

“Pick up that, philosopher and vender of wine,” said 
the Marquis, throwing him another coin, “and spend it 
as you will. The horses there; are they right? ” 

Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second 
time, Monsieur the Marquis leaned back in his seat, and 
was just being driven away with the air of a gentleman 
who had accidentally broken some common thing, and 
had paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his 
ease was suddenly disturbed by a coin flying into his car- 
riage, and ringing on its floor. 

“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the 
horses! Who threw that?” 

He looked to the spot where Defarge, the vender of 
wine, had stood a moment before; but the wretched 
father was grovelling on his face on the pavement in that 
spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the figure 
of a dark stout woman, knitting. 

“You dogs! ” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with 
an unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: 
“ I would ride over any of you very willingly, and exter- 
minate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw 
at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near 
it, he should be crushed under the wheels.” 

So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard 


\ 


MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY 75 

their experience of what such a man could do to them, 
within the law and beyond it, that not a voice, or a hand, 
or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one. 
But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, 
and looked the Marquis in the face. It was not for his 
dignity to notice it; his contemptuous eyes passed over 
her, and over all the other rats; and he leaned back in 
his seat again, and gave the word, “ Go on! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY. 

A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but 
not abundant. Patches of poor rye where corn should 
have been, patches of poor peas and beans, patches of 
most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. 

Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which 
might have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses 
and two postilions, fagged up a steep hill. 

A broken country, bold and open, a little village at the 
bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a 
church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a 
crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Mtound upon 
all these darkening objects as the night drew on, the 
Marquis looked with the air of one who was coming near 
home. 

The village 1 had its one poor street, with its poor brew- 
ery, poor tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for re- 
lays of post-horses, poor fountain, all usual poor appoint- 

1 The description that we have here of the village on the estate of the marquis is a com- 
panion picture to the description of the suburb of Saint Antoine around the wine-shop ol 
Defarge. One shows the condition of the country poor, the other of the city poor, just 
before the French Revolution. 


76 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ments. It had its poor people too. Expressive signs of 
what made them poor were not wanting; the tax for the 
state, the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax 
local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid 
there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, 
until the wonder was that there was any village left un- 
swallowed. 

Heralded by a courier in advance, Monsieur the Mar- 
quis drew up in his travelling carriage at the posting-house 
gate. It was hard by the fountain, and the peasants sus- 
pended their operations to look at him. 

Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive 
faces that drooped before him, when a grizzled mender of 
the roads joined the group. 

“ Bring me hither that fellow! ” said the Marquis to 
the courier. 

The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other 
fellows closed round to look and listen, in the manner of 
the people at the Paris fountain. 

“ I passed you on the road? ” 

“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honor of being 
passed on the road.” 

“ Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both ? ” 

“ Monseigneur, it is true.” 

“ What did you look at so fixedly ? ” 

“ Monseigneur, I looked at the man.” 

lie stopped a little and with his tattered blue cap pointed 
under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under 
the carriage. 

“ What man, pig? And why look there? ” 

“ Pardon, Monsiegneur; he swung by the chain of the 
shoe — the drag.” 

“Who?” demanded the traveller. 

“Monseigneur, the man.” 


MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY 77 

“ Idiot! How do you call the man? You know all 
the men of this part of the country. Who was he? ” 

“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this 
part of the country. Of all the days of my life, I never 
saw him.” 

“ Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated? ” 

“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder 
of it, Monseigneur. His head hanging over — like this ! 5 ’ 

He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned 
back with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head 
hanging down; then recovered himself, fumbled with 
his cap, and made a bow. 

“ What was he like ? ” 

“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All 
covered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre! ” 

The picture produced an immense sensation in the lit- 
tle crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with 
other eyes, looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps to 
observe whether he had any spectre on his conscience. 

“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, “to see a 
thief accompanying my carriage and not open that great 
mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Ga- 
belle ! ” 

Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other 
taxing functionary, united. 

“ Bah! Go aside! ” said Monsieur Gabelle. 

“ Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your 
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, 
Gabelle.” 

“ Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your 
orders. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Did he run away, fellow ? Where is that Accursed ? ’ 5 

The accursed was already under the carriage, with some 
half-dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with 


78 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


his blue cap. Some half-dozen other particular friends 
promptly haled him out, and presented him breathless to 
Monsieur the Marquis. 

“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for 
the drag? ” 

“Monseigneur, he precipitated 1 himself over the hill- 
side, head first, as a person plunges into the river.” 

“ See to it, Gabelle. Go on! ” 

The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were 
still among the wheels, like sheep: the wheels turned so 
suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and 
bones; they had very little else to save, or they might 
not have been so fortunate. 

The burst with which the carriage started out of the 
village, and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the 
steepness of the hill. Gradually it subsided to a foot- 
pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many 
sweet scents of a summer night, and Monseigneur was 
rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance that 
remained between him and his chateau . 2 

The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around 

him, and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, 

ragged, and toil-worn group at the fountain not far 

away. By degrees lights twinkled in little casements; 

which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars 

came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of 

having- been extinguished. 

© © 

The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many 
overhanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by 
that time; and the shadow was exchanged for the light 

1 Notice that these people talk very differently from Englishmen or Americans of the 
same class. This comes from a great difference in the national character. Select some 
expressions used by these peasants that seem to you different from English fashions of 
speech. 

a Chateau (sha-tO'): a fine country house. 


THE GORGON^S HEAD 


79 


of a flambeau , 1 as his carriage stopped, and the great door 
of his chateau was opened to him. 

“ Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from 
England?” 

“ Monseigneur, not yet.” 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE GORGON’S HEAD. 

It was a heavy mass of building that chateau of Mon- 
sieur the Marquis, with a large stone courtyard before it, 
and two stone sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone ter- 
race before the principal door. A stony business alto- 
gether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and 
stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads 
of lions in all directions. As if the Gorgon’s 2 head had 
surveyed it, when it was finished, two centuries ago. 

Up the broad flight of shallow steps Monsieur the Mar- 
quis, flambeau preceded, went from his carriage. 

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the 
Marquis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar spears, 
swords, and knives of the chase; grimmer with certain 
heavy riding rods and riding whips, of which many a peas- 
ant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight 
when his lord was angry. 

Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made 
fast for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flam- 
beau-bearer going on before, went up the staircase to a 
door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him to 
his own private apartment of three rooms; his bedchamber 
and two others. 

1 Torch. 

2 The Gorgon is a woman, told of in the Greek fables, that had the power, by her 
glance, of turning people to stone. 


so 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


A supper-table was laid for two in the third of the 
rooms; a round room, in one of the chateau’s four ex- 
tinguisher-topped towers. A small lofty room, with its 
window wide open, and the wooden blinds closed, so that 
the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of 
black, alternating w r ith their broad lines of stone color. 

“ My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the sup- 
per preparation; “ they said he was not arrived.” 

Nor was he; but he had been expected with Monseig- 
neur. 

“ Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; never- 
theless, leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quar- 
ter of an hour.” 

In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat 
down alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. Ilis 
chair was opposite to the window, and he had taken his 
soup, and was raising his glass of bordeaux to his lips, 
w r hen he put it down. 

“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with at- 
tention at the horizontal lines of black and stone color. 

‘ ‘ Monseigneur ? That ? ’ ’ 

“ Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.” 

It was done. 

“Well?” 

“ Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night 
are all that are here.” 

The servant who spoke had thrown the blinds wide, and 
looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood, with that 
blank behind him, looking round for instructions. 

“ Good,” said the imperturbable 1 master. “ Close them 
again.” 

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his 
supper. He was half-way through it, wdien he again 

1 Not to be disturbed. 


the gorgon's head 


81 


stopped with his glass in his hand, hearing the sound of 
wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the front 
of the chateau. 

“ Ask who is arrived.” 

It was the nephew of Monseigneur. 

He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper 
awaited him then and there, and that he was prayed to 
come to it. In a little while he came. He had been 
known in England as Charles Darnay. 

Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but 
they did not shake hands. 

“You left Paris yesterday, sir? ” he said to Monseig- 
neur, as he took his seat at table. 

‘ ‘ Y esterday . And you ? 5 ’ 

“I come direct.” 

“ From London ? ” 

“Yes. I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursu- 
ing the object that took me away. It carried me into great 
and unexpected peril ; but it is a sacred object, and if it had 
carried me to death, I hope it would have sustained me.” 

“Hot to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary 
to say, to death.” 

“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it 
had carried me to the utmost brink of death, you would 
have cared to stop me there.” 

The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening 
of the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous 
as to that ; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, 
which was so clearly a slight form of good breeding that 
it was not re-assuring. 

“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I 
know, you may have expressly worked to give a more sus- 
picious appearance to the suspicious circumstances that 
surrounded me.” 


82 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“No, no, no,” said the uncle pleasantly. 

44 But however that may be,” resumed the nephew, 
glancing at him with deep distrust, 44 I know that your 
diplomacy would stop me by any means, and would know 
no scruple as to means.” 

“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine 
pulsation in the two marks. “ Do me the favor to recall 
that I told you so, long ago.” 

“I recall it.” 

“Thank you,” said the Marquis, very sweetly indeed. 

His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a 
musical instrument. 

4 4 In effect, sir, 5 ? pursued the nephew, 4 4 1 believe it to 
be at once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that 
has kept me out of a prison in France here.” 

44 1 do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sip- 
ping his coffee. 44 Dare I ask you to explain? ” 

44 1 believe that if you were not in disgrace with the 
Court, and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for 
years past, a lettre de cachet 1 would have sent me to some 
fortress indefinitely. ’ ’ 

44 It is possible,” said the uncle, wfith great calmness. 
44 For the honor of the family, I could even resolve to in- 
commode you to that extent. Pray excuse me! ” 

44 1 perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the 
day before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed 
the nephew. 

44 1 would not say happily, my friend,” returned the 
uncle, with refined politeness; 44 1 would not be sure of 
that. A good opportunity for consideration, surrounded 
by the advantages of solitude, might influence your des- 


1 A sealed letter. The orders issued by the king or by those to whom he granted the 
power, for the imprisonment of some person, without stating any cause for such im- 
prisonment, were called by this name. 


THE GORGON^S HEAD 


83 


tiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for 
yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, 
as you say, at a disadvantage. These little 1 instruments 
of correction, these gentle aids to the power and honor of 
families, these slight favtfrs that might so incommode 
you, are only to be obtained now by interest and impor- 
tunity. We have lost many privileges; and the asser- 
tion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so 
far as to say would, but might) cause us real inconven- 
ience. All very bad, very bad! ” 

The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and 
shook his head. 

44 We have so asserted our station, both in the old time 
and in the modern time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, 
“that I believe our name to be more detested than any 
name in France. Even in my father’s time we did a 
world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came 
between us and our pleasure, whatever it was. Why 
need I, speak of my father’s time, when it is equally yours ? 
Can I separate my father’s twin brother, joint inheritor, 
and next successor, from himself ? ’ ’ 

“ Death has done that! ” said the Marquis. 

£ 4 And has left me, ’ ’ answered the nephew, 4 4 bound to 
a system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but 
powerless in it; seeking to execute the last request of my 
dear mother’s lips, and obey the last look of my dear 
mother’s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to 
redress; and tortured by seeking assistance 2 and power 
in vain.” 

44 Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Mar- 

1 The marquis does not speak out very frankly. What does he mean by “ little instru- 
ments of correction?” What was the favor that the marquis wished to gain from the 
great court noble? 

2 We begin to see what the business was that took Charles Darnay often from England 
to France. 


84 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


quis, touching him on the breast with his forefinger — 
they were now standing by the hearth — “you will for- 
ever seek them in vain, be assured.” 

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of 
snuff, and put his box in his pocket. 

“ Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after 
ringing a small bell on the table, “ and accept your nat- 
ural destiny. But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see. ” 

“ This property and France are lost tome,” said the 
nephew sadly; “ I renounce them. ” 

‘ ‘ Are they both yours to renounce ? F ranee may be, but 
is the property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but is 
it yet? ” 

“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some 
hands better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is 
possible) from the weight that drags it down, so that the 
miserable people who cannot leave it, and who have 
been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in 
another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. 
There is a curse on it and on all this land.” 

“ And you ? ” said the uncle. “ Forgive my curiosity; 
how do you graciously intend to live? ” 

“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, 
even with nobility at their backs, may have to do some 
day — work . 5 5 

“In England, for example? ” 

“Yes. The family honor, sir, is safe for me in this- 
country. The family name can suffer from me in no 
other, for I bear it in no other.” 

“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge 
of many. You know a compatriot who has found a Re- 
fuge there ? A Doctor 1 ? ” 

1 Notice that the marquis seems to have some knowledge of Dr. Manette. Do you 
think that he is friendly to him or not? 


the gorgon's head 


85 


“ Yes.” 

“ With a daughter ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

, “ Yes, ” said the Marquis. “ You are fatigued. Good- 
night! ” 

As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there 
was a secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an 
air of mystery to those words, which struck the eyes and 
ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same time, the thin 
straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin, 
straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a 
sarcasm that looked handsomely diabolic. 

“ Good-night! ” said the uncle. “ I look to the pleas- 
ure of seeing you again in the morning. Good repose l 
Light Monsieur my nephew to his chamber there! — And 
burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he 
added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and 
summoned his valet to his own bedroom. 

The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked 
to and fro in his loose chamber- robe to prepare himself 
gently for sleep that hot still night. 

“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “ and 
may go to bed.” 

So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, 
he let his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard 
the night break its silence with a long sigh as he composed 
himself to sleep. 

The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the 
black night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours 
the horses in the stables rattled at their racks, and the 
dogs barked. 

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, 
and the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and un- 
heard — both melting away, like the minutes that were 


80 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


falling from the spring of Time — through three dark 
hours. Then the gray water of both began to be ghostly 
in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau 
were opened. 

Now the sun was full up and movement began in the 
village. 

The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but 
awoke gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar 
spears and knives of the chase had been reddened as of 
old; now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses 
in their stables looked round over their shoulders at the 
light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves sparkled 
and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at 
their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed. 

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of 
life and the return of morning. Surely not so the ring- 
ing of the great bell of the chateau, nor the running up 
and down stairs, nor the hurried figures on the terrace, 
nor the booting and tramping here and there and every- 
where, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding 
away ? 

What did all this portend, and what portended the 
swift hoisting up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant 
on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle 
(double-laden though the horse was) at a gallop ? 

It portended that there was one stone face too many 
up at the chateau. 

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the 
night, and had added the one stone face wanting; the 
stone face for which it had Avaited through about tAvo 
hundred years. 

It lay back on the pilloAv of Monsieur the Marquis. It 
AA r as like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and 
petrified. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure 


TWO PROMISES 


87 


attached to it was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of 
paper, on which Avas scrawled — 

“ Drive him fast to his tomb . This , from Jacques.” 1 

CHAPTER YIII. 

TWO PROMISES. 

More months to the number of tAvelve had come and 
gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay Avas established in Eng- 
land as a higher teacher of the French language Avho was 
conversant Avith French literature. 

A certain portion of his time Avas passed at Cambridge, 
where he read with undergraduates. The rest of his time 
he passed in London. 

How, from the days when it was ahvays summer in 
Eden, to these days Avhen it is mostly Avinter in fallen 
latitudes, the Avorld of a man has invariably gone one way. 
— Charles Darnay ’s Avay — the Avay of the love of a Avoman. 

He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. 
He had never heard a sound so SAveet and dear as the sound 
of her compassionate voice; he had never seen a face so 
tenderly beautiful as hers Avhen it Avas confronted with 
his OAvn, on the edge of the grave that had been dug for 
him. But he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; 
the assassination at the deserted chateau far away beyond 
the heaving water and the long, long, dusty roads — the 
solid stone chateau Avhich had itself become the mere mist 
of a dream — had been done a year, and he had never yet, 
by so much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the 
state of his heart. 

1 Who do you think did this? You know that “Jacques,” as these men use the word, 
means only “ a poor man.” Notice how the author has prepared for this all through the 
chapter: the man hanging by the chain under the carriage of the marquis; the some- 
thing that the marquis thought he saw outside his window-blind; the description of the 
night. 


88 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


That he had his reasons for this he knew full well. It 
was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London 
from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet cor- 
ner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening 
his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the 
summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross. 

He found the Doctor reading in his armchair at a win- 
dow. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at sight of 
whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand. 

“ Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have 
been counting on your return these three or four days 
past.” 

‘ ‘ Miss Manette 5 5 

“Is well,” said the Doctor as he stopped short, “ and 
your return will delight us all. She has gone out on some 
household matters, but will soon be home.” 

“ Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took 
the opportunity of her being from home to beg to speak 
to you.” 

There was a blank silence. 

“Yes?” said the Doctor with evident constraint. 
“Bring your chair here and speak on.” 

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the 
speaking on less easy. 

“ I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so 
intimate here,” so he at length began, “for some year 
and a half, that I hope the topic on which I am about to 
touch may not — ” 

He was stayed by the Doctor’s putting out his hand to 
stop him. When he had kept it so a little while, he said, 
drawing it back — 

“ Is Lucie the topic ? ” 

“ She is.” 

There was another blank silence. 



CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE DAME. 





















































































TWO PROMISES 


89 


“ Shall I go on, sir ? ” 

“ Yes, go on.” 

“ You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot 
know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, with- 
out knowing my secret heart. Dear Doctor Manette, I 
love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, de- 
votedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love 
her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak 
for me! ” 

The Doctor sat with his face turned away and his eyes 
bent on the ground. At the last words he stretched out 
his hand again hurriedly and cried — 

“ Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not 
recall that! ” 

His cry was so like a cry of actual pain that it rang in 
Charles Darnay’s ears long after he had ceased. 

“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued 
tone, after some moments. “ I do not doubt your loving 
Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.” 

He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look 
at him or raise his eyes. Llis chin dropped upon his hand, 
and his white hair overshadowed his face. 

“Have you spoken to Lucie? ” 

“Ho.” 

“ Hor written? ” 

“Hever. ” 

“ It would be ungenerous to affect to know that your 
self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her 
father. Her father thanks you. 5 ’ 

He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it. 

“ I know,” saidDarnay, respectfully; “ how can I fail 
to know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together 
from day to day ? — that between you and Miss Manette 
there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging 


90 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that 
it can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between 
a father and chid.” 

Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His 
breathing Avas a little quickened; but he repressed all 
other signs of agitation. 

“ Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always 
seeing her and you Avith this hallowed light about you, I 
have forborne, and forborne, as long as it was in the 
nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now 
feel, that to bring my love — even mine — between you, 
is to touch your history with something not quite so good 
as itself. But I love her. Heaven is my witness that I 
love her! ” 

“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully, “I 
have thought so before now. I believe it. ” 

“But do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear 
the mournful voice struck with a reproachful sound, “ that 
if my fortune were so cast as that, being one day so happy 
as to make her my Avife, I must at any time put any sepa- 
ration betAveen her and you, I could or would breathe a 
word of Avhat I noAv say. Besides that I should knoAv it 
to be hopeless, I should know it to be a baseness. If I 
had any such possibility, even at a remote distance of 
years, harbored in my thoughts and hidden in my heart 
— if it ever had been there — if it eA r er could be there — I 
could not noAv touch this honored hand.” 

He laid his OAvn upon it as he spoke. 

AnsAvering the touch for a moment, but not coldly, her 
father rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, and 
looked up for the first time since the beginning of the 
conference. 

“ Do you seek any promise from me ? ” 

“ I do seek that” 


TWO PROMISES 


91 


“ What is it ? ” 

“ It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any 
time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ven- 
tured to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what 
I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you may be 
able to think so well of me as to urge no influence against 
me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what 
I ask. The condition on which I ask it, and which you 
have an undoubted right to require, I will observe imme- 
diately.” 

“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any 
condition. I believe your object to be, purely and truth- 
fully, as you have stated it. I believe your intention is 
to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties between me 
and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell 
me that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will 
give her to you. If there were — Charles Darnay, if 
there were — ” 

The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their 
hands were joined as the Doctor spoke — 

“ — Any fancies , 1 any reasons, any apprehensions, 
anything whatsoever, new or old, against the man she 
really loved — the direct responsibility thereof not lying 
on his head — they should all be obliterated for her sake. 
She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more 
to me than wrong, more to me — Well! This is idle 
talk.” 

So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, 
and so strange his fixed look when he had ceased to 
speak, that Darnay felt his own hand turn cold in the 
hand that slowly released and dropped it. 

1 Have you any vague idea what these “ fancies ” of Dr. Manette’s against Charles 
Darnay can be!' Notice that he will not let Charles tell him his real name, and that 
some agitation of his mind causes a slight relapse into the condition in which we first 
saw him in the garret of Ernest Defarge. 


92 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, 
breaking into a smile. “ What was it you said to me ? ” 

He was at a loss how to answer until he remembered 
having spoken of a condition. Believed as his mind re- 
verted to that, he answered — 

“ Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full 
confidence on my part. My present name, though but 
slightly changed from my mother’s, is not, as you will 
remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and 
why I am in England.” 

“ Stop! ” said the Doctor of Beauvais. 

“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confi- 
dence, and have no secret from you.” 

“ Stop! ” 

For an instant the Doctor even had his two hands at 
his ears; for another instant, even had his two hands 
laid on Darnay’s lips. 

“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit 
should prosper, if Lucie should love you, you shall tell me 
on your marriage morning. Do you promise? ” 

“Willingly.” 

“ Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and 
it is better she should not see us together to-night. Go! 
God bless you! ” 

It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was 
an hour later and darker when Lucie came home; she 
hurried into the room alone — for Miss Pross had gone 
straight upstairs — and was surprised to find his reading- 
chair empty. 

“ My father! ” she called to him. “ Father, dear! ” 

Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low ham- 
mering sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the 
intermediate room, she looked in at his door, and came 


SYDNEY CARTON 


93 


running back frightened, crying to herself, with her blood 
all chilled, “ What shall I do ? What shall 1 do ? ” 

Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, 
and tapped at his door, and softly called to him. The noise 
ceased at the sound of her voice, and he presently came 
out to her, and they walked up and down together for a 
long time. 

She came down from her bed to look at him in his sleep 
that night. He slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking 
tools, and his old unfinished work, were all as usual. 

CHAPTER IX. 

SYDNEY CARTON. 

If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly 
never shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had 
been there often, during a whole year, and had always 
been the same moody and morose lounger there. When 
he cared to talk, he talked well; but the cloud of caring 
for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal 
darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him. 

And yet he did care something for the streets that en- 
vironed that house, and for the senseless stones that made 
their pavements. Many a night he vaguely and unhap- 
pily wandered there; many a dreary daybreak revealed 
his solitary figure lingering there. 

On a day in August, when the sight and scent of flow- 
ers in the city streets had some waifs of goodness in them 
for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth for 
the oldest, Sydney’s feet still trod those stones. From 
being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated 
by an intention, and, in the working out of that inten- 
tion, they took him to the Doctor’s door. 


u 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


He was shown upstairs, and found Lucie at her work 
alone. She had never been quite at her ease with him, 
and received him with some little embarrassment as he 
seated himself near her table. But, looking up at his face 
in the interchange of the first few commonplaces, she 
observed a change in it. 

“ I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton! ” 

“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not con- 
ducive to health. What is to be expected of, or by, such 
profligates? ” 

“ Is it not — forgive me; I have begun the question on 
my lips — a pity to live no better life ? 5 ’ 

“ God knows it is a shame! ” 

He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes 
with his hand. The table trembled in the silence that 
followed. 

She had never seen him softened, and was much dis- 
tressed. He knew her to be so without looking at her, 
and said- — 

4 ‘ Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before 
the knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you 
hear me? ” 

“If it will do you any good. Mr. Carton, if it would 
make you happier, it would make me very glad! ” 

“ GocWbless you for your sweet compassion! ” 

He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke 
steadily. 

“ Don’t be afraid to hear me. Don’t shrink from any- 
thing I say. I am like one who died young. All my 
life might have been.” 

“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it 
might still be; I am sure that you might be much, much 
worthier of yourself.” 

“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know 


SYDNEY CARTON 


95 


better — although in the mystery of my own wretched 
heart I know better — I shall never forget it ! ” 

She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief 
with a fixed despair of himself which made the interview 
unlike any other that could have been holden. 

“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could 
have returned the love of the man you see before you, he 
would have been conscious this day and hour, in spite of 
his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, bring 
you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, disgrace you, 
pull you down with him. I know very well that you 
can have no tenderness for me ; I ask for none ; I am even 
thankful that it cannot be.” 

“ Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? ” 

He shook his head. 

“Ho, 1 Miss Manette. If you will hear me through a 
very little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I 
wish you to know that you have been the last dream of 
my soul. In my degradation I have not been so degraded 
but that the sight of you with your father, and of this 
home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows , 
that 1 thought had died out of me. I have had unformed 
ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, and fighting out 
the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends 
in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he ljuy down, 
but I wish you to know that you inspired it.” 

“Will nothing of it remain? Oh, Mr. Carton, can I 
use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for 
good with you at all?” 

‘ c The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss 
Manette, I have come here to realize. Let me carry 
through the rest of my misdirected life the remembrance 

1 When you have finished the hook, ask yourself the question whether Lucie Manette 
did save Sidney Carton. 


96 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


that I opened my heart to you last of all the world ; and 
that there was something left in me at this time which 
you could deplore and pity. I distress you; I draw fast 
to an end. Will you let me believe, when I recall this 
day, that the last confidence of my life was reposed in 
your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there alone, 
and will be shared by no one? ” 

“ If that will be a consolation to you, yes. ” 

“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to 
you? ” 

“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, 
“ the secret is yours, not mine; and I promise to respect 
it.” 

“ Thank you. And again, God bless you. ” 

He put her hand to his lips and moved towards the door. 

“ Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever 
resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word. 
I will never refer to it again. But, within myself, I shall 
always be towards you what I am now, though outwardly 
I shall be what you have heretofore seen me. The last 
supplication but one I make to you is, that you will be- 
lieve this of me.” 

“I will, Mr. Carton.” 

“My last supplication of all is this. It is useless to 
say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and 
for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career 
were of that better kind that there was any opportunity 
or capacity of sacrifice in it, I w^ould embrace any sacrifice 
for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in 
your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in 
this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be 
long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you 
— ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly 
to the home you so adorn — the dearest ties that will ever 


KNITTING 


97 


grace and gladden you. Oh, Miss Manette, think now 
and then that there is a man who would give his life to 
keep a life you love beside you ! 55 

He said “ Farewell! ” said a last “God bless you!” 
and left her. 


CHAPTER X. 

KNITTING. 

There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine- 
shop of Monsieur Defarge. It was high noontide, when 
two dusty men, of whom one was Monsieur Defarge, the 
other a mender of roads in a blue cap, entered the wine- 
shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the 
breast of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came 
along, which stirred and flickered in flames of faces at 
most doors and windows. Yet no one had followed 
them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine- 
shop, though the eyes of every man there were turned 
upon them. 

“Good-day, gentlemen! ” said Monsieur Defarge. 

It may have been a signal for loosening the general 
tongue. It elicited an answering chorus of “ Good- 
day! ” 

“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shak- 
ing his head. 

Upon which every man looked at his neighbor, and 
then all cast down their eyes and sat silent. Except one 
man, who got up and went out. 

“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame 
Defarge, “ I have travelled certain leagues with this good 
mender of roads, called Jacques. I met him— by acci- 
dent — a day and half’s journey out of Paris. He is a 


98 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give 
him to drink, my wife ! 55 

A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge 
set wine before the mender of roads called Jacques, who 
dolfed his blue cap to the company and drank. In the 
breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark bread; 
he ate of this between-whiles, and sat munching and drink- 
ing near Madame Defarge’s counter. A third man got 
up and went out. 

Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine. . 

“ Have you finished your repast, friend? ” he asked, in 
due season. 

“ Yes, thank you.” 

“ Come then! You shall see the apartment that I told 
you you could occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.” 

Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street 
into a courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, 
out of the staircase into a garret — formerly the garret 
where a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping 
forward and very busy, making shoes. 

Ho white-haired man was there now; but the three 
men were there who had gone out of the wine-shop singly. 

Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a sub- 
dued voice — 

“ Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is 
the witness encountered by appointment by me, Jacques 
Four. He w r ill tell you all. Speak, Jacques Five! ” 

The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his 
swarthy forehead with it, and said, “ Where shall I com- 
mence, monsieur? ” 

“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge’s not unreason- 
able reply, “at the commencement.” 

“I saw him then, messieurs ,” 1 began the mender of 

1 Messieurs (me-sye') : gentlemen, plural of monsieur. 


KNITTING 


99 


roads, “a year ago this running summer, underneath the 
carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the chain. The tall 
man is lost, and he is sought — how many months ? Nine, 
ten, eleven ? 55 

“No matter the number , 55 said Defarge. “He is well 
hidden, but at last he is unluckily found. Go on ! 55 

“I am again at work upon the hillside, and the sun is 
again about to go to bed. I am collecting my tools, when 
I raise my eyes and see coming over the hill six soldiers. 
In the midst of them is a tall man with his arms bound 
— tied to his sides, like this ! 55 

With the aid of his indispensable cap he represented a 
man with his elbows bound fast, at his hips, with cords 
that were knotted behind him. 

“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see 
the soldiers and their prisoner pass. I see that they are 
covered with dust, and that the dust moves with them as 
they come tramp, tramp! But, when they advance quite 
near to me, I recognize the tall man, and he recognizes me. 
Ah, but he would be well content to precipitate himself 
over the hillside once again, as on the evening when he 
and I first encountered, close to the same spot ! 55 

He described it as if he were there, and it was evident 
that he saw it vividly ; perhaps he had not seen much in 
his life. 

“ They bring him into the village; all the village runs 
to look; they take him past the mill and up to the prison; 
all the village sees the prison-gate open in the darkness 
of the night and swallow him — like this ! 55 

He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it 
with a sounding snap of his teeth. Observant of his un- 
willingness to mar the effect by opening it again, Defarge 
said, “Go on, Jacques . 55 

“All the village , 55 pursued the mender of roads, on 


100 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


tiptoe and in a low voice, “withdraws; all the village 
whispers by the fountain; all the village sleeps; all the 
village dreams of that unhappy one, within the locks and 
bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of 
it except to perish. ” 

“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge. 

“ He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The 
village looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. They 
whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to 
death, he will not be executed; they say that petitions 
have been presented in Paris, showing that he w^as en- 
raged and made mad by the death 1 of his child; they 
say that a petition has been presented to the King him- 
self. What do I know? It is possible. Perhaps yes, 
perhaps no.” 

“Listen then, Jacques,” Humber One of that name 
sternly interposed. “Know that a petition was pre- 
sented to the King and Queen. All here, yourself ex- 
cepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street, 
sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see 
here, who, at the hazard of his life, darted out before the 
horses with the petition in his hand.” 

“And once again listen, Jacques,” said the kneel- 
ing Humber Three, “the guard, horse and foot, sur- 
rounded the petitioner, and struck him blows. You 
hear? ” 

“I hear, messieurs.” 

“ Go on, then,” said Defarge. 

“At length, on Sunday night, when all the village is 
asleep, come soldiers, winding down from the prison, and 
their guns ring on the stones of the little street. Work- 
men dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in 

1 Now you are sure who it was that killed the marquis. Bid Defarge know this man 
personally? 


KNITTING 


101 


the morning, by the fountain, there is raised a gallows 
forty feet high, poisoning the water.” 

The mender of roads looked through rather than at the 
low ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows some- 
where in the sky. 

‘ ‘ All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads 
the cows out, the cows are there with the rest. At mid- 
day, the roll of drums. Soldiers have marched into the 
prison in the night, and he is in the midst of many sold- 
iers. On the top of the gallows is fixed the knife, blade 
upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged there 
forty feet high — and is left hanging, poisoning the 
water. 

“ That’s all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been 
warned to do), and I walked on, that night and half next 
day, until I met (as I was warned I should) this comrade. 
With him I came on, now riding and now walking, through 
the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here 
you see me! ” 

After a gloomy silence the first Jacques said, “ Good! 
You have acted and recounted faithfully. Will you wait 
for us a little outside the door? ” 

“ Yery willingly,” said the mender of roads. 

The three had risen and their heads were together when 
he came back to the garret. 

“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Humber One. 
“ To be registered? ” 

“ To be registered as doomed 1 to destruction, ” returned 
Defarge. 

“ The chateau and all the race ? ” inquired the first. 

“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. 
‘ ‘ Extermination. ’ ’ 


1 Here we see the beginnings of the French Revolution ; the growing anger of the 
people against the nobles, and the determination to revenge. 


102 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two of Defarge, “ that 
no embarrassment can arise from our manner of keeping 
the register ? Without doubt it is safe, for no one beyond 
ourselves can decipher it ; but shall we always be able to 
decipher it — or, I ought to say, will she ? ” 

“ Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “ if 
madame my v r ife undertook to keep the register in her 
memory alone, she would not lose a word of it — not a 
syllable of it. Knitted 1 in her own stitches and her own 
symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Con- 
fide in Madame Defarge.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

•STILL KNITTING. 

Madame Defarge spoke to her husband, — 

“ Say then, my friend: what did Jacques of the police 
tell thee? ” 

“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is an- 
other spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be 
many more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one. ” 
“Eh, well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eye- 
brows with a cool business air. “ It is necessary to reg- 
ister him. How do they call that man? ” 

“He is English.” 

“ So much the better. His name ? ” 

“ Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronun- 
ciation. But he had been so careful to get it accurately, 
that he then spelt it with perfect correctness. 

“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian 
name?” 

“John.” 


1 A strange sort of cipher record ! 


STILL KNITTING 


103 


“ John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it 
once to herself. ‘ ‘ Good. His appearance ; is it known ? 5 ’ 

“ Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; 
black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather handsome 
visage; eyes, dark; face, thin, long, and sallow; nose, 
aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar inclination 
towards the left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister.” 

‘ ‘ Eh, my faith ! It is a portrait ! ’ 5 said madame, laugh- 
ing. “He shall be registered to-morrow.” 

Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual 
place in the wine-shop, knitting away assiduously . 1 A 
rose lay beside her. There were a few customers, drink- 
ing or not drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. 

A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Ma- 
dame Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid 
down her knitting and began to pin her rose in her head- 
dress before she looked at the figure. 

It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took 
up the rose the customers ceased talking, and began grad- 
ually to drop out of the wine-shop. 

“ Good-day, madame,” said the new-comer. 

“ Good-day, monsieur.” 

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed 
her knitting: “Hah! Good-day, age about forty, height 
about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather hand- 
some visage, complexion dark, eyes dark, thin, long, and 
sallow face, aquiline nose, but not straight, having a pecu- 
liar inclination towards the left cheek, which imparts a 
sinister expression ! Good-day, one and all ! ” 

“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old 
cognac, and a mouthful of cool fresh water, madame . 5 ? 

Madame complied with a polite air. 

It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine 

1 Constantly and carefully. The word comes from two words meaning sitting down to. 


104 : 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


seemed to be decidedly opposed to a rose 1 on the head- 
dress of Madame Defarge. Tavo men had entered sep- 
arately, and had been about to order drink, when, catching 
sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of 
looking about as if for some friend w r ho was not there, and 
went away. Nor, of those who had been there when this 
visitor entered, was there one left. 

“ John , 55 thought madame, checking off her work as 
her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. 
“ Stay long enough, and I shall knit ‘ Barsad 5 before 
you go.” 

“ You have a husband, madame? ” 

“ I have.” 

“ Children?” 

“ No children.” 

“Business seems bad?” 

“ Business is very bad; the people are so poor.” 

“ Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed 
too — as you say. 5 ’ 

“As you say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and 
deftly knitting an extra something into his name that 
boded him no good. 

“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you 
naturally think so. Of course.” # 

“7 think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I 
and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine- 
shop open, without thinking. All we think here is, how 
to live. That is the subject we think of, and it gives us, 
from morning to night, enough to think about, without 
embarrassing our heads concerning others. 7 think for 
others? No, no.” 

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could 
find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express 

1 What did Madame Defarge mean by the rose in her head-dress? 


STILL KNITTING 


105 


itself in his sinister face; but stood with an air of gos- 
siping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge’s 
little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac. 

“ A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s 1 execu- 
tion. Ah! the poor Gaspard! ” With a sigh of great 
compassion. 

“ My faith ! 5 5 returned madame, coolly and lightly, “ if 
people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for 
it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was ; 
he has paid the price.” 

“ I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a 
tone that invited confidence, “I believe there is much 
compassion and anger in this neighborhood touching the 
poor fellow? Between ourselves.” 

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly. 

“ Is there not? ” 

“ — Here is my husband! ” said Madame Defarge. 

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the 
spy saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an 
engaging smile, “ Good-day, Jacques! ” Defarge stopped 
short and stared at him. 

“Good-day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not 
quite so much confidence or quite so easy a smile under 
the stare. 

“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper 
of the wine-ship. “You mistake me for another. That 
is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.” 

“ It is all the same, ? ? said the spy airily, but discomfited 
too. “ Good-day! ” 

“Good-day! ” answered Defarge, dryly. 

“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur De- 
farge, recalls to me,” pursued the spy, “ that I have the 
honor of cherishing some interesting associations with 

yOUr name. ’ 9 i where have we heard this name before? 


106 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Indeed! ” said Defarge, with much indifference. 

“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, 
you, his old domestic, had the charge of him, I know. 
He was delivered to you. You see I am informed of the 
circumstances? ” 

“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had 
had it conveyed to him, in an accidental touch of his 
wife’s elbow as she knitted that he would do best to 
answer, but always with brevity. 

“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter 
came ; and it was from your care that his daughter took 
him, accompanied by a neat brown monsieur; how is he 
called ? — in a little wig — Lorry — of the Bank of Tell- 
son and Company — over to England. ” 

“ Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge. 

“Very interesting remembrances! ” said the spy. “I 
have known Doctor Manette and his daughter in Eng- 
land.” 

“Yes,” said Defarge. 

“ Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an 
Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French by birth. 
And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard! It was 
cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is going to 
marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom 
Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet; in 
other words, the present Marquis. But he lives unknown 
in England; he is no marquis there; he is Mr. Charles 
Darnay. D’Aulnais is the name of his mother’s family. ” 

Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence 
had a palpable 1 effect upon her husband. Do what he 
would, behind the little counter, as to the striking of a 
light and the lighting of his pipe, he was troubled, and his 
hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been 

1 Very plain. The word literally means plain enough to be touched, touchable. 


STILL KNITTING 


107 


no spy if he had failed to see it or to record it in his mind. 

Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might 
prove to be worth, and no customers coming in to help 
him to any other, Mr. Barsad paid for what he had drunk, 
and took his leave; taking occasion to say in a genteel 
manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to 
the pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge 
again. For some minutes after he had emerged into the 
outer presence of Saint Antoine, the husband and wife 
remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should come 
back. 

“ Can it be true,” said Defarge in a low voice, looking 
down at his wife as he stood smoking with his hand on 
the back of her chair: “what he has said of Mam’selle 
Manette? ” 

“ As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eye- 
brows a little, “ it is probably false. But it may be true. ” 

“If it is — ” Defarge began again; and stopped. 

“If it is? ” repeated his wife. 

“ — And if it does come while we live to see it triumph 
— I hope, for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out 
of France.” 

“Her husband’s destiny,” said Madame Defarge with 
her usual composure, “ will take him where he is to go, 
and will lead him to the end that is to end him. That is 
all I know.” 

“But it is very strange — now, at least, is it not very 
strange,” said Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to 
induce her to admit it, “ that, after all our sympathy for 
monsieur her father and herself, her husband’s name 
should be proscribed 1 under your hand at this moment, 
by the side of that infernal dog’s who has just left us? ” 
' “ Stranger things than that will happen when it does 

1 Written down, as doomed to death. 


108 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


come,” answered madame. “ I have them both here, of a 
certainty ; and they are both here for their merits ; that 
is enough.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

ONE NIGHT. 

Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on 
the quiet corner in Soho than one memorable evening when 
the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree to- 
gether. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance 
over great London than on that night when it found them 
still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces 
through its leaves. 

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved 
this last evening for her father, and they sat alone under 
the plane-tree. 

“ You are happy, my dear father? ” 

“ Quite, my child.” 

They had said little, though they had been there a 
long time. When it was yet light enough to work and 
read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, 
nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in 
both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a 
time; but this time was not quite like any other, and 
nothing could make it so. 

“ And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am 
deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed, my 
love for Charles, and Charles’s love for me. But if my 
life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my mar- 
riage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by 
the length of a few of these streets, I should be more un- 
happy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even 
as it is — ” 


ONE NIGHT 


109 


Even as it was, she could not command her voice. 

“ If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have 
been quite happy with you.” 

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would 
have been unhappy without Charles, having seen him, 
and replied — 

“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it 
had not been Charles, it would have been another. Or, if 
it had been no other, I should have been the cause, and 
then the dark part of my life would have cast its shadow 
beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.” 

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, 
and humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on 
him. By and by they went into the house. 

There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry ; 
there was even to be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss 
Pross. The marriage was to make no change in their 
place of residence; they had been able to extend it by 
taking to themselves the upper rooms, and they desired 
nothing more. 

Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. 
They were only three at table, and Miss Pross made the 
third. He regretted that Charles was not there; was 
more than half disposed to object to the loving little plot 
that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately. 

So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good-night, and 
they separated. But in the stillness of the third hour of 
the morning Lucie came downstairs again and stole into 
his room: not free from unshaped fears beforehand. 

All things, however, were in their places ; all was quiet; 
and he lay asleep, his white hair picturesque on the 
untroubled pillow, and his hands lying quiet on the cov- 
erlet. She put her needless candle in the shadow at a 
distance, crept up to his bed, timidly laid her hand on 


110 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


his dear breast, and put up a prayer that she might ever 
be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his sor- 
rows deserved. Then she withdrew her hand, kissed his 
lips, and went away. So the sunrise came, and the sha- 
dows of the leaves of the plane-tree moved upon his face as 
softly as her lips had moved in praying for him. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

NINE DAYS. 

The marriage day w r as shining brightly, and they were 
ready outside the closed door of the Doctor’s room, where 
he was speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready 
to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss 
Pross — to whom the event, through a gradual process of 
reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of 
absolute bliss, but for the yet lingering consideration that 
her brother Solomon should have been the bridegroom. 

“ And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently 
admire the bride, and who had been moving round her to 
take in every point of her quiet, pretty dress; “ and so it 
was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought you across 
the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I 
thought what I w T as doing. How lightly I valued the 
obligation I was conferring on my friend Mr. Charles! ” 

“You didn’t mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact 
Miss Pross, “and therefore how could you know it? 
Nonsense! ” 

“Really? Well; but don’t cry,” said the gentle Mr. 
Lorry. 

‘ ‘ I am not crying, ’ ’ said Miss Pross ; ‘ ‘ you are. ’ ’ 

“ I, my Pross ? ” (By this time Mr. Lorry dared to be 
pleasant with her on occasion.) 


NINE DAYS 


111 


“You were just now; I saw you do it, and I don’t 
wonder at it. Sucli a present of plate as you have made 
’em is enough to bring tears into anybody’s eyes. There’s 
not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said Miss Pross, 
“ that I didn’t cry over last night after the box came till 
I couldn’t see it.” 

“ I am highly gratified, ’’said Mr. Lorry. “ Now, my 
dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round her waist, 
“ I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross 
and I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to 
lose the final opportunity of saying something to you that 
you wish to hear. Y ou leave your good father, my dear, 
in hands as earnest and as loving as your own; he shall 
be taken every conceivable care of; during the next fort- 
night, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, 
even Tellson’s shall go to the wall (comparatively speak- 
ing) before him. And when, at the fortnight’s end, on 
your other fortnight’s trip in Wales, you shall say that 
we have sent him to you in the best health and in the hap- 
piest frame. Now I hear Somebody’s step coming to the 
door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an old-fashioned 
bachelor blessing before Somebody comes to claim his 
own.” 

For a moment he held the fair face from him to look at 
the well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then 
laid the bright golden hair against his little brown wig, 
with a genuine tenderness and delicacy, which, if such 
things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam. 

The door of the Doctor’s room opened, and he came out 
with Charles Darnay. He was so deadly pale 1 — which 
had not been the case when they went in together — that 

1 You know what Charles Darnay was to tell Dr. Manette on his marriage morning. 
You know who Charles Darnay really was, although you do not yet know his father’s 
name. The disclosure of that name must have caused Dr. Manette’s pallor. 


112 


A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


no vestige of color was to be seen in his face. But in the 
composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that, 
to the shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry, it disclosed some sha- 
dowy indication that the old air of avoidance and dread 
had lately passed over him like a cold wind. 

He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down- . 
stairs to the chariot which Mr. Lorry had hired in honor 
of the day. The rest followed in another carriage, and 
soon, in a neighboring church where no strange eyes 
looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were hap- 
pily married. 

Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles 
of the little group when it was done, some diamonds, very 
bright and sparkling, glanced on the bride’s hand, which 
were newly released from the dark obscurity of one of 
Mr. Lorry’s pockets. They returned home to breakfast, 
and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that 
had mingled with the poor shoemaker’s white locks in the 
Paris garret, was mingled with them again in the morning 
sunlight, on the threshold of the door at parting. 

It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But 
her father cheered her, and said at last, gently disengag- 
ing himself from her enfolding arms, “ Take her, Charles! 
She is yours! ” And her agitated hand waved to them 
from a chaise window, and she was gone. 

The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, 
and the preparations having been very simple and few, 
the Doctor* Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross were left quite 
alone. It was when they turned into the welcome shade 
of the cool old hall that Mr. Lorry had observed a great 
change to have come over the Doctor. 

He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion 
might have been expected in him when the occasion for 
repression was gone. But it was the old scared, lost look 


NINE DAYS 


113 


that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent manner 
of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into 
his own room when they got upstairs, Mr. Lorry was re- 
minded of Defarge, the wineshop-keeper, and the star- 
light ride. 

44 1 think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious 
consideration, 44 1 think we had best not speak to him just 
now, or at all disturb him. I must look in at Tellson’s; 
so I will go there at once and come back presently. Then 
we will take him a ride into the country, and dine there, 
and all will be well.” 

It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson’s than 
to look out of Tellson’s. He was detained two hours. 
When he came back he ascended the old staircase alone, 
having asked no question of the servant. Going thus 
into the Doctor’s rooms, he was stopped by a low sound 
of knocking. 

44 Good God ! ” he said with a start. 44 What’s that ? ” 

Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. 44 Oh 
me! oh, me! All is lost! ” cried she, wringing her hands. 
44 What is to be told to Ladybird ? He doesn’t know me 
and is making shoes! ” 

Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went 
himself into the Doctor’s room. The bench was turned 
towards the light, as it had been when he had seen the shoe- 
maker at his work before, and his head was bent down, 
and he was very busy. 

4 4 Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Man^tte ! ’ ’ 

The Doctor looked at him for a moment — half inquir- 
ingly, half as if he were angry at being spoken to — and 
bent over his work again. 

He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat ; his shirt was 

open at the throat, as it used to be when he did that work ; 

8 


114 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


and even the old haggard, faded surface of face had come 
back to him. He worked hard — impatiently — as if in 
some sense of having been interrupted. 

Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and ob- 
served that it was a shoe of the old size and shape. He 
took up another that was lying by him, and asked him 
what it was. 

u A young lady’s walking shoe,” he muttered, without 
looking up. “ It ought to have been finished long ago. 
Let it be.” 

“ But, Doctor Manette. Look at me! ” 

He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, 
without pausing in his work. 

“ You know me, my dear friend ? Think again. This 
is not your proper occupation. Think, dear friend! ” 

Nothing would induce him to speak more. 

Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry 
as important above all others; the first, that this must 
be kept secret from Lucie ; the second, that it must be kept 
secret from all who knew him. In conjunction with Miss 
Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter pre- 
caution by giving out that the doctor was not well, and 
required a few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind 
deception to be practised on his daughter, Miss Pross was 
to write, describing his having been called away profes- 
sionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of. two or 
three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have 
been addressed to her by the same post. 

These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. 
Lorry took in the hope of his coming to himself. If that 
should happen soon, he kept another course in reserve; 
which was, to have a certain opinion that he thought the 
best on the Doctor’s case. 

Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, 


AN OPINION 


115 


and observed him at intervals from the adjoining room. 
He paced up and down for a long time before he lay down ; 
but when he did finally lay himself down he fell asleep. 
In the morning he was up betimes, and went straight to 
his bench and to work. 

The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry’s hope 
darkened, and his heart grew heavier again, and grew 
yet heavier and heavier every day. The third day came 
and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days, 
seven days, eight days, nine days. 

With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always 
growing heavier and heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through 
this anxious time. The secret was well kept, and Lucie 
was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to ob- 
serve that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little 
out at first, was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he 
had never been so intent on his work, and that his hands 
had never been so nimble and expert as in the dusk of the 
ninth evening. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

AN OPINION. 

Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep 
at his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he 
was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where 
a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark 
night. 

He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, 
when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. 
For, going to the door of the Doctor’s room and looking 
in, he perceived that the shoemaker’s bench and tools were 
put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading 
at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and 


116 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


his face (which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still 
very pale, was calmly studious and attentive. 

Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at 
Mr. Lorry’s side. He advised that they should let the 
time go by until the regular breakfast hour, and should 
then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. 
If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. 
Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and 
guidance from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so 
anxious to obtain. 

Miss Pross submitting herself to his judgment, the 
scheme was worked out with care. The Doctor was sum- 
moned in the usual w r ay, and came to breakfast. 

So far as it was possible to comprehend him without 
overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which 
Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first 
supposed that his daughter’s marriage had taken place 
yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, 
to the day of the week, and the day of the month, set 
him thinking and counting, and evidently made him un- 
easy. In all other respects, however, he was so com- 
posedly himself that Mr. Lorry determined to have the 
aid he sought. And that aid was his own. 

Therefore, when the breakfast w r as done and cleared 
away, and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. 
Lorry said feelingly, — 

“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opin- 
ion, in confidence, on a very curious case in whch I am 
deeply interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; 
perhaps to your better information it may be less so.” 

Glancing at his hands, which were discolored by his 
late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened at- 
tentively. He had already glanced at his hands more 
than once* 


AN OPINION 


117 


“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him 
affectionately on the arm, “ the case is the case of a par- 
ticularly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to 
it, and advise me well for his sake — and, above all, for 
his daughter’s — his daughter’s, my dear Manette. ” 

“If I understand,” said the Doctor in a subdued tone, 
“ some mental shock — ? ” 

“Yes!” 

“ Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “ Spare no detail. ” 

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and 
proceeded. 

“ My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a pro- 
longed shock, of great acuteness and severity, to the affec- 
tions, the feelings, the — the — as you express it — the 
mind. The mind. It is a case of a shock from which 
he has recovered so completely as to be a highly intelli- 
gent man. But, unfortunately, there has been” — he 
paused and took a deep breath — “a slight relapse. ” 

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “ Of how long 
duration? ” 

“ Nine days and nights.” 

“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his 
hands again, “in the resumption of some old pursuit con- 
nected with the shock? ” 

“ That is the fact.” 

“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, dis- 
tinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice, 
“ engaged in that pursuit originally? ” 

“Once.” 

“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most 
respects — or in all respects — as he was then ? ” 

“I think in all respects.” 

“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know 
of the relapse? ” 


118 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will 
always be kept from her. It is known only to myself and 
to one other who may be trusted . 5 ’ 

The Doctor grasped his hand and murmured, “That 
was very kind. That was very thoughtful! ” Mr. Lorry 
grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke 
for a little while. 

“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry at length, 
in his most considerate and most affectionate way, “ I am 
a mere man of business, and unfit to cope with such intri- 
cate and difficult matters. There is no man in this world 
on whom I could so rely for right guidance as on you. 
Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Could a 
repetition of it be prevented? Pray discuss it with me; 
pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, and teach 
me how to be a little more useful.” 

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words 
were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him. * 

“ I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence 
with an effort, “ that the relapse you have described, my 
dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.” 

“ Was it dreaded by him ? ” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask. 
“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shud- 
der. 

“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on 
the Doctor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, 
“ to what would you refer this attack ? ” 

“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there 
had been a strong and extraordinary revival of the train 
of thought and remembrance that was the first cause of 
the malady. Some intense associations of a most distress- 
ing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable 
that there had long been a dread lurking in his mind that 
those associations would be recalled — say, under certain 


AN OPINION 


119 


circumstances — say, on a particular occasion. He tried 
to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare 
himself made him less able to bear it.” 

“ Would he remember what took place in the relapse ? ” 
asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation. 

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his 
head, and answered in a low voice, “ Hot at all.” 

“ How, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry. 

“ As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firm- 
ness, “ I should have great hope. I should hope that tho 
worst was over.” 

“ Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful! ” 
said Mr. Lorry. 

“I am thankful! ” repeated the Doctor, bending his 
head with reverence. 

“The occupation resumed under the influence of this 
passing affliction so happily recovered from,” said Mr. 
Lorry, clearing his throat, “we will call — Blacksmith’s 
work. Blacksmith’s work. We will say, to put a case 
and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in 
his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that 
he was unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not 
a pity that he should keep it by him ? ’ ’ 

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat 
. his foot nervously on the ground. 

“ILe has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with 
an anxious look at his friend. “How, would it not be 
better that he should let it go ? ” 

Still the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot 
nervously on the ground. 

“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. 
Lorry. “I quite understand it to be a nice question. 
And yet I think — ” And here he shook his head and 
stopped. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


120 

■ “ You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after 

an uneasy pause, “ it is very hard to explain, consistently, 
the innermost working of this poor man’s mind. He once 
/ yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so 
welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so 
much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the 
perplexity of the brain; that he has never been able to 
bear the thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even 
now, when, I believe, he is more hopeful of himself than 
he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind 
of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employ- 
ment and not find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, 
like that which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a 
lost child.” 

He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to 
Mr. Lorry’s face. 

“But — mind! I ask for information, as a plodding 
man of business. If the thing were gone, my dear Ma- 
nette, might not the fear go with it? ” 

There was another silence. 

“You see, too,” said the Doctor tremulously, “it is 
such an old companion.” 

“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his 
head; for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor dis- 
quieted. “I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I 
only want your authority. I am sure it does no good. 
Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. 
For his daughter’s sake, my dear Manette! ” 

Yery strange to see what a struggle there was within 
him! 

“ In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But 
I would not take it away while he was present. Let it be 
removed when he is not there; let him miss his old com- 
panion after an absence,” 




THE BASTILLE AS IT WAS. ENTRANCE TO ST. ANTOINE AT THE RIGHT 











































ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


121 


Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference 
was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the 
Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days 
he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he 
went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precau- 
tion that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. 
Lorry had previously explained to him, and he had writ- 
ten to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no sus- 
picions. 

On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. 
Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and 
hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There, 
with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, 
Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker’s bench to pieces, while 
Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a 
murder — for which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no 
unsuitable figure. The burning of the body (previously 
reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was com- 
menced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools, 
shoes, and leather were buried in the garden. So wicked 
do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that 
Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the commis- 
sion of their deed, and in the removal of its traces, almost 
felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible 
crime. 


CHAPTER XY. 

ECHOING FOOTSTEPS. 

A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, 
that corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding 
the golden thread which bound her husband, and her 
father, and herself, and her old directress and companion, 
in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the 


122 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing 
footsteps of years. 

The time passed and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. 
Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread 
of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. 
Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young 
mother at the cradle-side could always hear those com- 
ing. They came, and the shady house was sunny with 
a child’s laugh, and the Divine Friend of children seemed 
to take her child in His arms, as He took the child of old, 
and made it a sacred joy to her. 

Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them 
all together, weaving the service of her happy influence 
through the tissue of all their lives, and making it pre- 
dominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years 
none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband’s 
step was strong and prosperous among them; her father’s 
firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string 
awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-cor- 
rected, snorting and pawing the earth under the plane- 
tree in the garden ! 

The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Syd- 
ney Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he 
claimed his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would 
sit among them through the evening, as he had once done 
often. He never came there heated with wine. And 
one other thing regarding him was whispered in the 
echoes, which had been whispered by all true echoes for 
ages and ages. 

Ho man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew 
her with a blameless though an unchanged mind when 
she was a wife and a mother, but her children had a 
strange sympathy with him — an instinctive delicacy of 
pity for him. Wliat fine hidden sensibilities are touched 


ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


123 


in such a case, no echoes tell ; but it is so, and it was so 
here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie 
held out her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her 
as she grew. 

But there were other echoes, from a distance, that 
rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this space 
of time. And it was now about little Lucie’s sixth birth- 
day that they began to have an awful sound, as of a great 
storm in France with a dreadful sea rising. 

On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred 
and eighty-nine, Mr. Lorry came in late from Tellson’s, 
and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the 
dark window. It was a hot wild night, and they were 
all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they 
had looked at the lightning from the same place. 

“ I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown 
wig back, 66 that I should have to pass the night at Tell- 
son’s. We have been so full of business all day, that we 
have not known what to do first, or which way to turn. 
There is such an uneasiness in Paris that we have actually 
a run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there 
seem not to be able to confide their property to us fast 
enough. There is positively a mania among some of them 
for sending it to England.” 

“ That has a bad look,” said Darnay. 

“ A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay ? Yes, but we 
don’t know what reason there is in it. People are so un- 
reasonable! Is the tea-board still there, Lucie? I can’t 
see.” 

“ Of course it has been kept for you.” 

“ Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in 
bed?” 

“ And sleeping soundly.” 

“ That’s right; all safe and well ! Now come and take 


124 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


your place in tlie circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear the 
echoes about which you have your theory . 55 

“ Not a theory; it was a fancy.” 

“ A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting 
her hand. “ They are very numerous and very loud, 
though, are they not? Only hear them! ” 

Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their 
way into anybody’s life, footsteps not easily made clean 
again if once stained red, the footsteps raging in Saint 
Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in the dark London 
window. 

Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky 
mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent 
gleams of light above the billowy heads, where steel 
blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous 
roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest 
of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelled branches 
of trees in a winter wind; all the fingers convulsively 
clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon 
that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter 
how far off. 

Who gave them out, whence they last came, where 
they began, through what agency they crookedly quivered 
and jerked, scores at a time, over the heads of the crowd, 
like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have 
told ; but muskets were being distributed — so were car- 
tridges, powder and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, 
axes, pikes, every weapon that distracted ingenuity could 
discover or devise. People who could lay hold of noth- 
ing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to force 
stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every 
pulse and heart in Saint Antoine was on higli-fever 
strain and at high-fever heat. Every living creature 


ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


125 


there held life as of no account, and was demented with 
a passionate readiness to sacrifice it. 

As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so 
all this raging circled round Defarge’s wine-shop, and 
every human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be 
sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, al- 
ready begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, 
issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged this man for- 
ward, disarmed one to arm another, labored and strove 
in the thickest of the uproar. 

“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; 
“and do you, Jacques One and Two, separate and put 
yourselves at the head of as many of these patriots as you 
can. Where is my wife?” 

“Eh, well! Here you see me! ” said madame, com- 
posed as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame’s reso- 
lute right hand was occupied with an ax, in place of the 
usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol 
and a cruel knife. 

“ Where do you go, my wife ? ” 

“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You 
shall see me at the head of women by and by. ” 

“Come, then! ” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. 
“Patriots and friends, we are ready! The Bastille ! 5,1 

With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France 
had been shaped into the detested word, the living sea 
rose, wave on wave, depth on depth, and overflowed the 
city to that point. Alarm bells ringing, drums beating, 
the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the at- 
tack begun. 

1 The great prison which we know as the place where Dr. Manette was confined for 
eighteen years was an object of the special hatred of the people. It represented to them 
the arbitrary power of the king and the nobles, a power that darkened their lives and 
shut them out from hope. Here prisoners were confiued for state offences by these ter- 
rible “ sealed orders.” The beginning of the Kevolution was an attack by the people of 
Paris upon the Bastille, July 14, 1789. 


126 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, 
eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. 
Through the fire and through the smoke — in the fire and 
in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against a cannon, 
and on the instant he became a cannonier — Defarge 
of the wane-shop worked like a manful soldier, two 
fierce hours. 

Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, 
eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. 
One drawbridge down ! “ W ork, comrades all, work ! 

Work, Jacques One, Jacques Tv r o, Jacques One Thou- 
sand, Jacques Two Thousand, Jacques Five and Twenty 
Thousand; in the name of all the Angels or the Devils — 
which you prefer — work! Thus Defarge of the wine- 
shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot. 

“To me, women! ” cried madame his wife. “What! 
We can kill as v r ell as the men when the place is taken! ” 
And to her, with a shrill thirsty cry, trooping women 
variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge. 

Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep 
ditch, the single drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and 
the eight great towers. Slight displacements of the rag- 
ing sea made by the falling ivounded. Flashing weapons, 
blazing torches, smoking wagon-loads of w r et straw, 
hard work at neighboring barricades in all directions, 
shrieks, volleys, execrations, bravery without stint, boom, 
smash, and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living 
sea; but still the deep ditch and the single drawbridge, 
and the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers, 
and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown 
doubly hot by the service of Four fierce hours. 

A w r hite flag from within the fortress, and a parley — 
this dimly perceptible through the raging storm, nothing 
audible in it — suddenly the sea rose immeasurably wider 


ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


127 


and higher, and swept Defarge of the wine-shop over the 
lower drawbridge, past the massive stone outer walls, in 
among the eight great towers surrendered! 

So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, 
that even to draw his breath or turn his head was as im- 
practicable as if he had been struggling in the surf of the 
South Sea, until he was landed in the outer courtyard of 
the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he made 
a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly 
at his side; Madame Defarge, still heading some of her 
women, was visible in the inner distance, and her knife 
was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, 
deafening bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious 
dumb-show. 

“ The Prisoners ! 55 

“ The Records ! 55 

“ The secret cells! ” 

‘ ‘ The instruments of torture ! 5 5 

“ The Prisoners! 55 

Of all these cries, u The Prisoners! ” was the cry most 
taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an 
eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When 
the foremost billows rolled past, bearing the prison offi- 
cers with them, and threatening them all instant death 
if any secret nook remained undisclosed, Defarge laid his 
strong hand on the breast of one of these men — a man 
with a gray head, who had a lighted torch in his hand — 
separated him from the rest, and got him between him- 
self and the wall. 

“ Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “ Quick!” 

“ I will faithfully,” replied the man, “ if you will come 
with me. But there is no one there.” 

“ What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North 
Tower? ” asked Defarge. “ Quick! ” 


128 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


6 ‘ The meaning, monsieur ? 5 ’ 

‘ 4 Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity ? Or do 
you mean that I shall strike you dead ? ” 

“Kill him! 55 croaked Jacques Three, who had come 
close up. 

“Monsieur, it is a cell.” 

“ Show it me! ” 

“ Pass this w r ay, then.” 

J acques Three, evidently disappointed by the dialogue 
taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed, 
held by Defarge’s arm as he held by the turnkey’s. Their 
three heads had been close together during this brief dis- 
course, and it had been as much as they could do to hear 
one another, even then : so tremendous was the noise of 
the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and 
its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. 
All around outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, 
hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial 
shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like 
spray. 

Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had 
never shone, past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, 
down cavernous flights of steps, and again up steep rugged 
ascents of stone and brick, more like dry w x ater-falls than 
staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, 
linked hand and arm, went w r ith all the speed they could 
make. Here and there, especially at first, the inundation 
started on them and swept by ; but when they had done 
descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, 
they were alone. Hemmed in by the massive thickness 
of walls and arches, the storm within the fortress and 
without w r as only audible to them in a dull subdued way, 
as if the noise out of which they had come had almost 
destroyed their sense of hearing. 


ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


129 


The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clash- 
ing lock, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they 
all bent their heads and passed in — 

“ One hundred and live, North Tower! ” 

There was a small, heavily grated, unglazed window 
high in the wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the 
sky could be only seen by stooping low and looking up. 
There was a small chimney heavily barred across, a few 
feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood 
ashes on the hearth. There were a stool, and table, and 
a straw bed. There were the four blackened walls, and a 
rusted iron ring in one of them. 

“ Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may 
see them,” said Defarge to the turnkey. 

The man obeyed and Defarge followed the light closely 
with his eyes. 

“ Stop! — Look here, Jacques! ” 

“A. M. ! ” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily. 

“ Alexander Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, follow- 
ing the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained 
with gunpowder. “ And here he wrote ‘a poor physi- 
cian.’ And it was he, without doubt, who scratched a 
calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand ? A 
crowbar? Give it me! ” 

He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. 
He made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and 
turning on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them 
to pieces in a few blows. 

“Hold the light higher!” he said wrathfully to the 
turnkey. “Look among those fragments with care, 
Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,” throwing it to 
him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold 
the light higher, you! ” 

With a menacing look at the turnkey, he crawled upon 


130 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the hearth, and peering up the chimney, struck and prized 
at its sides with the crowbar, and worked at the iron grat- 
ing across it. In a few minutes some mortar and dust 
came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; 
and in it, and in the old wood ashes, and in a crevice in 
the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wrought 
itself, he groped with a cautious touch. 

“ Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, 
Jacques? 55 
“ Nothing.” 

“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the 
cell. So! Light them, you! ” 

The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and 
hot. Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door, 
they left it burning, and retraced their way to the court- 
yard, seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they 
came down, until they were in the raging flood once more. 

They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge 
himself. Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine- 
shop-keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor 
who had defended the Bastille and shot the people. Other- 
wise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de 
Yille 1 for judgment. Otherwise, the governor would es- 
cape, and the people’s blood (suddenly of some value, after 
many years of worthlessness) be unavenged. 

In the howling universe of passion and contention that 
seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in 
his gray coat and red decoration, there was but one quite 
steady figure, and that was a woman’s. “See, there is 
my husband! ” she cried, pointing him out. “See De- 
farge! ” She stood immovable close to the grim old offi- 
cer, and remained immovable close to him; remained im- 
movable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and 

* City Hall. 


FIRE RISES 


131 


the rest bore him along; remained immovable close to 
him when he was got near his destination, and began to 
be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to 
him when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell 
heavy ; was so close to him when he dropped dead under 
it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his 
neck, and with her cruel knife — long ready — hewed off 
his head. 

Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, 
the keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong tow- 
ers, some discovered letters 1 and other memorials of pris- 
oners of old time, long dead of broken hearts — such, and 
such-like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine 
escort through the Paris streets in mid- July, one thousand 
seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat 
the fancy of Lucie Darnay, and keep these feet far out of 
her life! For they are headlong, mad, and dangerous; 
and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask at 
Defarge’s wine-shop door, they are not easily purified 
when once stained red. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

FIRE RISES. 

There was a change on the village where the fountain 
fell, and where the mender of roads went forth daily to 
hammer out of stones on the highway such morsels of 
bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant 

1 This is a portion of one of the letters: “If for my consolation Monseigneur would 
grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I could have news of 
my dear wife; were it only her name on a card, to show me that she is alive! It were the 
greatest consolation I could receive; and I should forever bless the name of Monseig- 
neur.” It is dated at the Bastille, October 7, 1752. This extract is given by Carlyle in 
his “French Revolution.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


m 

soul and his poor reduced body together. The change 
consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low 
caste. 

For in these times, as the mender of roads worked, soli- 
tary, in the dust, as he raised his eyes from his lonely 
labor and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough 
figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once 
a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. 

Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the 
J uly weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, 
taking such shelter as he could get from a showier of hail. 

The man looked at him, looked at the village in the 
hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When 
he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he 
had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible — 

“ How goes it, Jacques? 55 

“ All well, Jacques.” 

“ Touch, then! ” 

They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap 
of stones. 

“ Ho dinner? ” 

“ Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, 
with a hungry face. 

“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no 
dinner anywhere.” 

He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with 
flint and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: 
then, suddenly held it from him, and dropped something 
into it from between his finger and thumb, that blazed 
and went out in a puff of smoke. 

4 ‘ Touch, then . 5 5 It was the turn of the mender of roads 
to say it this time, after observing these operations. They 
again joined hands. 

“ To-night? ” said the mender of roads. 


FIRE RISES 


133 


“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his 
mouth. 

“Where?” 

“ Here.” 

He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones 
looking silently at one another, with the hail driving in 
between them like a pygmy charge of bayonets, until the 
sky began to clear over the village. 

“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the 
brow of the hill. 

“About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill 
above the village.” 

“ Good. When do you cease to work ? ” 

“At sunset.” 

“Will you wake me before departing ? I have walked 
two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and 
I shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me? ” 

“Surely.” 

The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, 
slipped off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his 
back on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly. 

The man slept on until the sun was low in the west, 
and the sky was glowing. Then the mender of roads, 
having got his tools together, and all things ready to go 
down into the village, roused him. 

“ Good,” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “ Two 
leagues beyond the summit of the hill? ” 

“ About.” 

“About. Good.” 

The mender of roads went home, and was soon at the 
fountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine 
brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to 
them in his whispering to all the village. When the 
village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed, 


134 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and re- 
mained there. A curious contagion of whispering was 
upon it, and also, when it gathered together at the foun- 
tain in the dark, another curious contagion of looking ex- 
pectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur 
Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; 
went out on his housetop alone, and looked in that direc- 
tion too ; glanced down from behind his chimneys at the 
darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to 
the sacristan , 1 who kept the keys of the church, that there 
might be need to ring the tocsin 2 by and by. 

The night deepened. The trees environing the old 
chateau, keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a ris- 
ing wind, as though they threatened the pile of building 
massive and dark in the gloom. East, West, North, and 
South, through the woods, four heavy-treading, unkempt 
figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches, 
striding on cautiously to come together in the court- 
yard. Four lights broke out there, and moved away in 
different directions, and all was black again. 

But not for long. Presently the chateau began to 
make itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as 
though it were growing luminous. Then a flickering 
streak played behind the architecture of the front, pick- 
ing out transparent places, and showing where balus- 
trades, arches, and windows were. Then it soared 
higher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon, from a 
score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the 
stone faces, awakened, stared out of fire. 

A faint murmur arose about the house from the few 
people who were left there, and there was saddling of a 
horse and riding away. There was spurring and splasli- 


1 A church officer who takes care of a church. Sexton comes from this word. 

2 A warning signal given by means of a bell. 


FIRE RISES 


135 


ing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the 
space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam 
stood at Monsieur Gabelle’s door. ‘ ‘ Help, Gabelle ! Help, 
every one ! ” The toscin rang impatiently, but other help 
(if that were any) there was none. The mender of roads, 
and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood with 
folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire 
in the sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they 
grimly, and never moved. 

The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, 
clattered away through the village, and galloped up the 
stony steep, to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a 
group of officers were looking at the fire; removed from 
them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen officers! 
The chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved 
from the flames by timely aid! Help, help! ” The offi- 
cers looked towards the soldiers, who looked at the fire; 
gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting of 
lips, “It must burn.” 

As the rider rattled down the hill again, and through 
the street, the village was illuminating. The mender of 
roads, and the two hundred and fifty particular friends, 
inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lighting 
up, had darted into their houses, and were putting can- 
dles in every dull little pane of glass. 

The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by 
the fire, scorched and shrivelled. Great rents and splits 
branched out in the solid walls, like crystallization; stu- 
pefied birds wheeled about, and dropped into the furnace; 
four fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North, and 
South, along the night-enshrouded roads, guided by the 
beacon they had lighted, towards their next destination. 

The illuminated village had seized hold of the toscin, 
and, abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy. 


136 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER XVII. 

DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK. 

In such risings of fire and risings of sea — the firm earth 
shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now 
no ebb, but was always on the flow, higher and higher, to 
the terror and wonder of the beholders on the shore — 
three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birth- 
days of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread 
into the peaceful tissue of the life of her home. 

Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened 
to the echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them 
when they heard the thronging feet. For the footsteps 
had become to their minds as the footsteps of a people, 
tumultuous under a red flag and with their country de- 
clared in danger, changed into wild beasts by terrible 
enchantment long persisted in. 

The Court was gone. Royalty was gone; had been 
besieged in its Palace and “ suspended,” when the last tid- 
ings came over from France. 

The August of the year one thousand seven hundred 
and ninety-two was come, and Monseigneur 1 was by this 
time scattered far and wide. 

As was natural, the headquarters and great gathering- 
place of Monseigneur, in London, was Tell son’s Bank. 
Spirits are supposed to haunt the places where their bodies 
most resorted, and Monseigneur without a guinea haunted 
the spot where his guineas used to be. 

On a steaming, misty afternoon Mr. Lorry sat at his 
desk, and Charles Darnay stood leaning on it, talking 
with him in a low voice. 

1 The word is here used for the French nobility in general. 


DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK 


137 


“But, although you are the youngest man that ever 
lived,” said Charles Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must 
still suggest to you — ” 

“ I understand. That I am too old ? ” said Mr. Lorry. 

“LTnsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means 
of travelling, a disorganized country, a city that may 
not even be safe for you.” 

“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry with cheerful con- 
fidence, “you touch some of the reasons for my going: 
not for my staying away. It is safe enough for me; no- 
body will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard upon 
four score, when there are so many people there much bet- 
ter worth interfering with. As to its being a disorgan- 
ized city, if it were not a disorganized city there would be 
no occasion to send somebody from our House here to our 
House there. As to the uncertain travelling, the long 
journey, and the winter weather, if 1 were not prepared 
to submit myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of 
Tellson’s, after all these years, who ought to be? ” 

“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, 
somewhat restlessly, and like one thinking aloud. 

“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and ad- 
vise! ” exclaimed Mr. Lorry. “You wish you were go- 
ing yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You are a 
wise counsellor.” 

“ My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman 
born that the thought (which I did not mean to utter here, 
however) has passed through my mind often. One can- 
not help thinking, having had some sympathy for the mis- 
erable people, and having abandoned something to them,” 
he spoke here in his former thoughtful manner, “ that one 
might be listened to, and might have the power to per- 
suade to some restraint. Only last night, after you had 
left us, when I was talking to Lucie — ” 


138 


A TALE OE TWO CITIES 


“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry re- 
peated. “ Yes, I wonder you are not ashamed to mention 
the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to France 
at this time of day! ” 

“ However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay with 
a smile. “ It is more to the purpose that you say you are. ’ ’ 

“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear 
Charles,” Mr. Lorry lowered his voice, “you can have 
no conception of the difficulty with which our business is 
transacted, and of the peril in which our books and papers 
over yonder are involved. How, a judicious selection 
from these w r ith the least possible delay, and the burying 
of them, or otherwise getting of them out of harm’s way, 
is within the power (without loss of precious time) of 
scarcely any one but myself, if any one.” 

“ And do you really go to-night? ” 

“ I really go to-night, for the case has become too press- 
ing to admit of delay.” 

“ And do you take no one with you ? ” 

“ All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I 
v r ill have nothing to say to any of them. I intend to take 
Jerry. Jerry has been my body-guard on Sunday nights 
for a long time past, and I am used to him. Hobody will 
suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bulldog, 
or of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody 
who touches his master.” 

“ I must say that I heartily admire your gallantry and 
youthfulness.” 

“I must say, nonsense, nonsense! When I have exe- 
cuted this little commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tell- 
son’s proposal to retire and live at my ease. Time enough 
then to think about growing old.” 

The House 1 approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled 


1 Head of the firm. 


DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK 


139 


and unopened letter before him, asked if he had yet dis- 
covered any traces of the person to whom it was addressed. 
The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay that 
he saw the direction — the more quickly, because it was 
his own right name. The addressed, turned into Eng- 
lish, ran: “Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the 
Marquis St. Evremonde , 1 of France. Confided to the 
cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers, London, Eng- 
land.” 

On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made 
it his one urgent and express request to Charles Darnay 
that the secret of his name should be — unless he, the Doc- 
tor, dissolved the obligation — kept inviolate between 
them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own 
wife had no suspicion of the fact: Mr. Lorry could have 
none. 

“No,” said Mr. Lorry in reply to the House; “ I have 
referred it, I think, to everybody now here, and no one 
can tell me where this gentleman is to be found. ’ ’ 

Darnay touched his shoulder, and said — 

“ I know the man.” 

“ Will you take charge of the letter? ” said Mr. Lorry. 
“ V ou know where to deliver it ? ” 

“I do.” 

“Will you undertake to explain that we suppose it to 
have been addressed here, on the chance of our knowing 
where to forward it, and that it has been here some time ? ” 
“ I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here? ” 
“From here, at eight.” 

“ I will come back to see you off.” 

Very ill at ease with himself, Darnay made the best of 
his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the letter, 
and read it. These were its contents: — 

1 St. Evremonde (sah-ta-vrS-mOiid'). This, then, is the true name of Charles Darnay. 


140 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

Prison of the Abba ye 1 , Paris. 
June 21, 1792. 

Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, — After having long been in 
danger of my life at the hands of the village, I have been seized with 
great violence and indignity, and brought a long journey on foot to 
Paris. On the road I have suffered a great deal. Nor is that all ; my 
house has been destroyed — razed to the ground. 

The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the 
Marquis, and for which I shall be summoned before the Tribunal, and 
shall lose my life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, 
treason against the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against 
them for an emigrant 2 . It is in vain I represent that I have acted for 
them, and not against, according to your commands. It is in vain I 
represent that I collected no rent; that I had recourse to no process. 
The only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and where is 
that emigrant ? 

Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that 
emigrant? I cry in my sleep, where is he? 1 demand of Heaven, will 
he not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah, Monsieur heretofore the 
Marquis, I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps 
reach your ears through the great Bank of Tilson known at Paris ! 

For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honor of 
your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to 
succor and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh, 
Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me ! 

From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and 
nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the 
assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service. 

Your afflicted, 

Gabelle. 

The latent uneasiness in Darnay’s mind was roused to 
vigorous life by this letter. The peril of an old servant 
and a good servant, v r hose only crime was fidelity to him- 
self and his family, stared him so reproachfully in the 
face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple consider- 
ing what to do, he almost hid his face from the passers-by. 

1 Abbaye (a-bV) : a French military prison. 

2 The revolutionists called the nobles that escaped from France “ emigrants.” Many 
of the escaped nobles fled to Austria and there collected troops to invade France. This 
aroused the anger of the revolutionists against all “ emigrants.” 


DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK 


141 


His resolution was made. He must go to Paris. 

As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he 
considered that neither Lucie nor her father must know 
of it until he was gone. Lucie should be spared the pain 
of separation; and her father, always reluctant to turn 
his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old, should 
come to the knowledge of the step as a step taken, and 
not ih the balance of suspense and doubt. 

He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until 
it was time to return to Tellson’s, and take leave of Mr. 
Lorry. As soon as he arrived in Paris he would present 
himself to this old friend, but he must say nothing of his 
intention now. 

A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, 
and Jerry was booted and equipped. 

“ I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to 
Mr. Lorry. “ I would not consent to your being charged 
with any written answer, but perhaps you will take a 
verbal one?” 

“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is 
not dangerous.” 

“Hot at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Ab- 
baye.” 

“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open 
pocket-book in his hand. 

“Gabelle.” 

“ Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortun- 
ate Gabelle in prison? ” 

“Simply, ‘that he has received the letter, and will 
come . 5 5 5 

“ Any time mentioned ? ” 

“ He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.” 

“ Any person mentioned? ” 

“Ho.” 


142 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


lie helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of 
coats and cloaks, and went out with him from the warm 
atmosphere of the old Bank, into the misty air of Fleet 
Street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said 
Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them 
till I come back.” Charles Darnay shook his head, and 
doubtfully smiled, as the carriage rolled away. 

That night — it was the fourteenth of August — he sat 
up late and wrote two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, 
explaining the strong obligation he was under to go to 
Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons that he 
had for feeling confident that he could become involved 
in no personal danger there; the other was to the Doc- 
tor, confiding Lucie and their dear child to his care, and 
dwelling on the same topics with the strongest assurances. 
To both he wrote that he would despatch letters in proof 
of his safety, immediately after his arrival. 

It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with 
the first reservation of their joint lives on his mind. Early 
in the evening he embraced his wife and her scarcely less 
dear namesake, pretending that he would return by and 
by (an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had 
secreted a valise of clothes ready), and so he emerged into 
the heavy mist of the heavy streets, with a heavier heart. 

The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself now, 
and all the tides and winds were setting straight and 
strong towards it. He left his two letters with a trusty 
porter, to be delivered half an hour before midnight, and 
no sooner; took horse for Dover, and began his journey. 
“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the 
honor of your noble name! ” was the poor prisoner’s cry 
with which he strengthened his sinking heart, as he left 
all that was dear on earth behind him, and floated away 
for the Loadstone Pock. 


BOOK THE THIRD 

THE TRACK OF A STOEM 


CHAPTER I. 

IN SECRET. 

The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared 
towards Paris from England in the autumn of the year 
one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two. More than 
enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad horses he 
would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen 
and unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne 
in all his glory; but the changed times were fraught with 
other obstacles than these. Every town gate arid village 
taxing-house had its band of citizen-patriots, with their 
national muskets in a most explosive state of readiness, 
who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them, 
inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of 
their own, turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped 
them and laid them in hold, as their capricious judgment 
or fancy deemed best for the dawning Eepublic One and 
Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death. 

A very few French leagues of his journey were accom- 
plished, when Charles Darnay began to perceive that for 
him along these country roads there was no hope of re- 
turn until he should have been declared a good citizen at 
Paris. 

He had been days upon his journey in France alone, 
when he went to bed tired out, in a little town on the 
high-road, still a long way from Paris. 


144 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle’s 
letter from his prison of the Abbaye would have got him 
on so far. His difficulty at the guard-house in this small 
place had been such, that he felt his journey to have come 
to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little suprised as a 
man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn 
to which he had been remitted until morning, in the mid- 
dle of the night. 

Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed 
patriots in rough red caps, and with pipes in their mouths, 
who sat down on the bed. 

“ Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to 
send you on to Paris under an escort.” 

“ Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, 
though I could dispense with the escort.” 

“ Silence! ” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet 
with the butt-end of his musket. “ Peace, aristocrat! ” 

“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid 
functionary. “You are an aristocrat and must have an 
escort — and must pay for it.” 

“ 1 have no choice,” said Charles Darnay. 

“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling 
red-cap. “Pise and dress yourself, emigrant.” 

Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard- 
house, where other patriots in rough red caps were smok- 
ing, drinking, and sleeping by a watch-fire. Here he 
paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he started 
with it on the wet, wet roads at three o’clock in the 
morning. 

The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and 
tri-colored cockades, armed with national muskets and 
sabres, who rode one on either side of him. The escorted 
governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to 
his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded 


I1ST SECRET 


145 


round his wrist. In this state they traversed without 
change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues 
that lay between them and the capital. 

Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. 
The barrier was closed and strongly guarded when they 
rode up to it. 

“ Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded 
a resolute-looking man in authority, who was summoned 
out by the guard. 

Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles 
Darnay requested the speaker to take notice that he was 
a free traveller and French citizen, in charge of an escort 
which the disturbed state of the country had imposed 
upon him, and which he had paid for. 

“ Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking 
any heed of him whatever, “are the papers of this pris- 
oner?” 

The drunken patriot had them in his cap and produced 
them. Casting his eyes over Gabelle’s letter, the same 
personage in authority showed some disorder and sur- 
prise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention. 

He left both esqort and escorted without saying a word, 
however, and went into the guard-room ; meanwhile they 
sat upon their horses outside the gate. Looking about 
him while in this state of suspense, Charles Darnay ob- 
served that the gate was held by a mixed guard of sol- 
diers and patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; 
and that while ingress into the city for peasants’ carts 
bringing in supplies, and for similar traffic and traffickers, 
was easy enough, egress, even for the homliest people, 
was very difficult. The red 1 cap and tricolored cockade 
were universal, both among men and women. 

1 The red cap and the tricolor (red, white, and blue) were the symbols of the French 
Revolution. 


146 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking 
note of these things, Darnay found himself confronted by 
the same man in authority, who directed the guard to 
open the barrier. Then he delivered to the escort, drunk 
and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him to 
dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his 
tired horse, turned and rode away without entering the 
city. 

He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smell- 
ing of common wine and tobacco. Some registers were 
lying open on a desk, and an officer of a coarse dark aspect 
presided over these. 

“ Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay’ s conductor as 
he took a slip of paper to write on, “ is this the emigrant 
Evremonde 1 ? ’ ’ 

“ This is the man:” 

“Your age, Evremonde?” 

“ Thirty-seven.” 

“ Married, Evremonde ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where married ? ” 

“ In England.” 

“ Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde? ” 

“ In England.” 

“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to 
the prison of La Force.” 

“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what 
law and for what offence? ” 

The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a 
moment. 

“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, 
since you were here.” He said it with a hard smile, and 
went on writing. 


1 Evremonde (S-vra-mond'). 


IN SECRET 


147 


“ I entreat you to observe that I have come here volun- 
tarily, in response to that written appeal of a fellow-coun- 
tryman which lies before you. I demand no more than 
the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that my 
right? 55 

“ Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the 
stolid reply. The officer wrote until he had finished, read 
over to himself what he had written, sanded it, and 
handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.” 

Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that 
he must accompany him. The prisoner obeyed, and a 
guard of two armed patriots attended them. 

“ It is you,” said Defarge in a low voice, as they went 
down the guard-house steps and turned into Paris, “ who 
married the daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner 
in the Bastille that is no more ? 5 5 

“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise. 

“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the 
Quarter Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me. ” 

“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? 
Yes! Will you render me a little help?” 

“ None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight be- 
fore him. 

“Will you answer me a single question ? ” 

“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say 
what it is . 5 ? 

“ In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I 
have some free communication with the world outside? ” 

“You will see.” 

“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without 
any means of presenting my case ? ” 

“‘ You will see. But what then? Other people have 
been similarly buried in worse prisons before now.” 

“ But never by me, Citizen Defarge.” 


148 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked 
on in a steady and set silence. The deeper he sank into 
this silence, the fainter hope there was — or so Darnay 
thought — of his softening in any slight degree. He, 
therefore, made haste to say — 

“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, citi- 
zen, even better than I, of how much importance) that I 
should be able to communicate to Mr. Lorry, of Tellson’s 
Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris, the 
simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown 
into the prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be 
done for me? ” 

“ I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “ nothing for 
you. My duty is to my country and the People. I am 
the sworn servant of both, against you. I will do noth- 
ing for you.” 

Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, 
and his pride was touched besides. They w r alked on in 
silence. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street, through 
which they passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, 
was addressing an excited audience on the crimes against 
the people of the king and the royal family. The few words 
that he caught from this man’s lips, first made it known to 
Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the 
foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the 
road he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and 
the universal watchfulness had completely isolated him. 

That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those 
which had developed themselves when he left England, he 
of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself 
that he might not have made this journey, if he could 
have foreseen the events of a few days. And yet his mis- 
givings were not so dark as, imagined by the light of this 
later time, they would appear. 


IN SECRET? 


149 


Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in 
cruel separation from his wife and child, he foreshadowed 
the likelihood, or the certainty; but, beyond this, he 
dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on his mind, which 
was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he 
arrived at the prison of La Force. 

A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, 
to whom Defarge presented “ The Emigrant Evremonde. ” 
The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and 
filthy, and with a horrible smell of foul sleep in it. 

“Come! ” said the chief, taking up his keys, “come 
with me, emigrant.” 

Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge 
accompanied him by corridor and staircase, many doors 
clanging and locking behind them, until they came to a 
stone staircase, leading upward. When they had as- 
cended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already 
counted them), the jailer opened a low black door, and 
they passed into a solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, 
but was not dark. 

“ Yours,” said the jailer. 

“ Why am I confined alone ? ” 

“ How do I know? ” 

“ I can buy pen, ink, and paper? ” 

“ Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and 
can ask them. At present you may buy your food, and 
nothing more.” 

There were in the cell a chair, a table, and a straw mat- 
tress. When the jailer was gone, Darnay thought, “ Yow 
am I left as if I were dead.” 


150 


A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER II. 

THE GRINDSTONE. 

Tellson’s Bank, established in the Saint Germain 1 
Quarter of Paris, w r as in a wing of a large house, ap- 
proached by a courtyard, and shut off from the street by 
a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to a 
great nobleman, who had lived in it until he had made a 
flight from the troubles in his own cook’s dress, and got 
across the borders. 

Monsiegneur gone, Monsiegneur’s house had been con- 
fiscated. For all things moved so fast, and decree fol- 
lowed decree with that fierce precipitation, that now, upon 
the third night of the autumn month of September, patriot 
emissaries 2 of the law were in possession of Monsiegneur’s 
house, and had marked it with the tricolor, and were 
drinking brandy in its state apartments. 

What money would be drawn out of Tellson’s hence- 
forth, and what would lie there, lost and forgotten ; what 
plate and jewels w r ould tarnish in Tellson’s hiding-places, 
while the depositors rusted in prisons, no man could have 
said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, 
though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by a 
newly lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year 
was prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous 
face there was a deeper shade than the pendent lamp could 
throw — a shade of horror. 

He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the 
House of which he had grown to be a part, like strong 
root-ivy. It chanced that they derived a kind of security 

1 St. Germain (sah-zher-man'): the quarter of Paris occupied by the rich, as St. Antoine 
was occupied by the poor. 

2 Agents. 


THE GRINDSTONE 


151 


from the patriotic occupation of the main building, but 
the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about 
that. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a col- 
onnade, was extensive standing for carriages — where, 
indeed, some carriages of Monsiegneur yet stood. Against 
two of the pillars were fastened two great flaring flam- 
beaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the open 
air, was a large grindstone; a roughly mounted thing, 
which appeared to have hurriedly been brought there 
from some neighboring smithy, or other workshop. Ris- 
ing and looking out of the window at these harmless ob- 
jects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the 
fire. He had opened, not only the glass window, but 
the lattice blind outside it, and he had closed both again, 
and he shivered through his frame. 

“ Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, 
“ that no one near and dear to me is in this dreadful town 
to-night ! May He have mercy on all who are in danger ! 5 5 

Soon afterwards the bell at the great gate sounded. 

The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired 
a vague uneasiness respecting the Bank. It was well 
guarded, and he got up to go among the trusty people 
who were watching it, when his door suddenly opened, 
and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in 
amazement. 

Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched 
out to him, and with that old look of earnestness so con- 
centrated and intensified, that it seemed as though it had 
been stamped upon her face expressly to give force and 
power to it in this one passage of her life. 

“ What is this? ” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and con- 
fused. £ ‘ What is the matter ? Lucie ! Manette ! What 
has happened ? What has brought you here ? What is 
it?” 


152 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wild- 
ness, she panted out in his arms, imploringly, “ Oh, my 
dear friend! My husband!” 

“ Your husband, Lucie ? ” 

“ Charles.” 

“ What of Charles ? ” 

“ Here.” 

“ Here, in Paris? ” 

“Has been here some days — three or four — I don’t 
know how many — I can’t collect my thoughts. An er- 
rand of generosity brought him here unknown to us; he 
was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.” 

The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at 
the same moment the bell of the great gate rang again, 
and a loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the 
courtyard. 

‘ ‘ AFhat is that noise ? ’ ’ said the Doctor, turning towards 
the window. 

“ Don’t look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “ Don’t look out! 
Manette, for your life, don’t touch the blind! ” 

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening 
of the window, and said, with a cool, bold smile: 

“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. 
I have been a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in 
Paris — in Paris? in France — who, knowing me to have 
been a prisoner in the Bastille, would touch me, except to 
overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph. 
My old pain has given me a power that has brought us 
through the barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, 
and brought us here. I knew it would be so; I knew I 
could help Charles out of all danger; I told Lucie so. — - 
What is that noise?” His hand w T as again upon the 
window. 

“ Don’t look! ” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. 



ON THE ROAD TO THE GUILLOTINE 




















' 




















































































































































































THE GRINDSTONE 


153 


“ No, Lucie, my dear, nor you! ” He got his arm round 
her and held her. What prison is he in ? 5 5 

“ La Force! 5 ’ 

“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave 
and serviceable in your life — and you were always both 
— you will compose yourself now to do exactly as I bid 
you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or I 
can say. There is no help for you in any action on 
your part to-night; you cannot possibly stir out. I say 
this because what I must bid you to do for Charles’s sake 
is the hardest thing to do of all. You must instantly be 
obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a 
room at the back here. You must leave your father and 
me alone for two minutes, and, as there are Life and Death 
in the world, you must not delay.” 

“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that 
you know I can do nothing else than this. I know you 
are true.” 

The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, 
and turned the key; then came hurrying back to the Doc- 
tor, and opened the window and partly opened the blind, 
and put his hand upon the Doctor’s arm and looked out 
with him into the courtyard. 

Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not 
enough in number, or near enough, to fill the courtyard: 
not more than forty or fifty in all. The people in posses- 
sion of the house had let them in at the gate, and they 
had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently 
been set up there for their purpose, as in a convenient and 
retired spot. 

But such awful workers and such awful work! 

The eye could not detect one creature in the group free 
from the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to 
get next at the sharpening-stone were men stripped to 


154 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the waist, with the stain all over their limbs and bodies. 
Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be 
sharpened, were all red with it. 

All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drown- 
ing man, or of any human creature at any very great pass, 
could see a world if it were there. They drew back from 
the window, and the Doctor looked for explanation in his 
friend’s ashy face. 

“ They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing 
fearfully round at the locked room, ‘ c murdering the pris- 
oners. If you are sure of what you say: if you really 
have the power you think you have — as I believe you 
have — make yourself known and get taken to La Force. 
It may be too late, I don’t know, but let it not be a min- 
ute later! ” 

Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded 
out of the room, and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry 
regained the blind. 

His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the 
impetuous confidence of his manner, as he put the weap- 
ons aside like water, carried him in an instant to the 
heart of the concourse at the stone. For a few moments 
there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and the 
unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry 
saw him, surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line 
twenty men long, all linked shoulder to shoulder, and 
hand to shoulder, hurried out with cries of u Live the Bas- 
tille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner’s kindred 
in La Force! Boom for the Bastille prisoner in front 
there! Save the prisoner Evremonde at La Force! ” and 
a thousand answering shouts. 

He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, 
closed the window and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and 
told her that her father was assisted by the people and 


THE SHADOW 


155 


gone in search of her husband. He found her child and 
Miss Pross with her; but it never occurred to him to be 
surprised by their appearance until a long time after- 
wards, when he sat watching them in such quiet as the 
night knew. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SHADOW. 

One of the first considerations which arose in the busi- 
ness mind of Mr. Lorry, when business hours came round, 
was this: — that he had no right to imperil Tellson’s by 
sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under the 
Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would 
have hazarded for Lucie and her child, without a mo- 
ment’s demur; but the great trust he held was not his 
own, and as to that business charge he was a strict man 
of business. 

Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every 
minute’s delay tending to compromise Tellson’s, Mr. 
Lorry advised with Lucie. She said that her father had 
spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term in that Quar- 
ter, near the Banking-house. Mr. Lorry went out in 
quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high 
up in a removed by- street, where the closed blinds in all 
the other Avindows of a high melancholy square of build- 
ings marked deserted homes. 

To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, 
and Miss Pross, giving them Avhat comfort he could, and 
much more than he had himself. He left Jerry with 
them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear con- 
siderable knocking on the head, and returned to his occu- 
pations. A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to 


156 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


bear upon them, and slowly and heavily the day lagged 
on with him. 

It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the 
Bank closed. He was again alone in his room of the pre- 
vious night, considering what to do next, when he heard 
a foot upon the stair. In a few moments a man stood in 
his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him, 
addressed him by his name. 

“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know 
me? ” 

He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, 
from forty-five to fifty years of age. For answer he re- 
peated, without any change of emphasis, the words — 

“Do you know me?” 

“I have seen you somewhere.”- 

“Perhaps at my wine-shop?” 

Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You 
come from Doctor Manette? ” 

“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.” 

“ And what says he? What does he send me?’ ’ 

Defarge gave into his anxious hand an open scrap of 
paper. It bore the words in the Doctor’s writing — 

“Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet. I have 
obtained the favor that the bearer has a short note from Charles to his 
wife. Let the bearer see his wife.” 

It was dated from La Force within an hour. 

“Will j^ou accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfulty 
relieved after reading this note aloud, “ to where his wife 
resides? ” 

“Yes,” returned Defarge. 

Scarcely noticing, as yet, in what a curiously reserved 
and mechanical way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on 


THE SHADOW 


157 


his hat, and they went down into the courtyard. There 
they found two women, one knittiing. 

“ Madame Defarge, surely! ” said Mr. Lorry, who had 
left her in exactly the same attitude some seventeen years 
ago. 

“It is she,” observed her husband. 

“ Does madame go with us? ” inquired Mr. Lorry, see- 
ing that she moved as they moved. 

u Yes. That she may be able to recognize the faces 
and know the persons. It is for their safety.” 

Beginning to be struck by Defarge’s manner, Mr. Lorry 
looked dubiously at him, and led the way. Both the 
women followed; the second women had already earned 
the complimenary name of The Vengeance. 

They passed through the intervening streets as quickly 
as they might, ascended the staircase of the new domi- 
cile, were admitted by Jerry, and found Lucie weeping, 
alone. She was thrown into a transport by the tidings 
Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand 
that delivered his note — little thinking w r hat it had been 
doing near him in the night, and might, but for a chance, 
have done to him. 

“ Dearest — Take courage. I am well, and your father has influence 
around me. You cannot answer this. Kiss our cliild for me.” 

That was all the writing. It was so much, however, 
to her who received it, that she turned from Defarge to 
his wife, and kissed one of the hands that knitted. It 
was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but 
the hand made no response — dropped cold and heavy, 
and took to its knitting again. 

There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a 
check. She stopped in the act of putting the note in her 


158 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


bosom, and, with her hands yet at her neck, looked ter- 
rified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the 
lifted eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare. 

“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; 
“ there are frequent risings in the streets; and, although 
it is not likely they will ever trouble you, Madame De- 
farge wishes to see those whom she has the power to pro- 
tect at such times, to the end that she may know r them 
— that she may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. 
Lorry, rather halting in his re-assuring words, as the 
stony manner of all the three impressed itself upon him 
more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?” 

Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other 
answer than a gruff sound of acquiescence. 

“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he 
could to propitiate by tone and manner, “ have the dear 
child here, and our good Pross. Our good Pross, De- 
farge, is an English lady, and knows no French.” 

The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she 
was much more than a match for any foreigner, w r as not 
to be shaken by distress and danger, appeared with folded 
arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance, whom 
her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! 
I hope you are pretty well ! ” She also bestowed a British 
cough on Madame Defarge; but neither of the two took 
much heed of her. 

“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping 
in her work for the first time, and pointing her knitting- 
needle at little Lucie as if it were the finger of Fate. 

“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our 
poor prisoner’s darling daughter, and only child.” 

The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her 
party seemed to fall so threatening and dark on the child, 
that her mother instinctively kneeled on the ground be- 


CALM IN STORM 


159 


side her, and held her to her breast. The shadow attend- 
ant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to 
fall threatening and dark on both the mother and the 
child. 

“It is enough, my husband , 55 said Madame Defarge. 
“I have seen them. We may go . 55 

She resumed her knitting and went out. The Ven- 
geance followed. Defarge went last and closed the door. 

“ Courage, my dear Lucie , 55 said Mr. Lorry as he raised 
her. “ Courage, courage! So far all goes well with us 
— much, much better than it has of late gone with many 
poor souls. Cheer up and have a thankful heart . 55 

“ I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman 
seems to throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes . 55 

“ Tut, tut ! 55 said Mr. Lorry; “ what is this despond- 
ency in the brave little breast? A shadow indeed! No 
substance in it, Lucie . 55 

But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was 
dark upon himself, for all that, and in his secret mind it 
troubled him greatly. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CALM IN STORM. 

Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of 
the fourth day of his absence. So much of what had 
happened in that dreadful time as could be kept from 
the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, 
that not until long afterwards, when France and she were 
wide apart, did she know that eleven hundred defenceless 
prisoners of both sexes and all ages had been killed by the 
populace. 

To Mr. Lorry the Doctor communicated that the crowd 


160 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


had taken him through a scene of carnage to the prison 
of La Force. That in the first frantic greetings lavished 
on himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown sys- 
tem, it had been accorded to him to have Charles Darnay 
released, wdien the tide in his favor met with some un- 
explained check (not intelligible to the Doctor), which 
led to a few words of secret conference. That the man sit- 
ting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that 
the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his 
sake, be held inviolate in safe custody. That immedi- 
ately, on a signal, the prisoner was removed to the in- 
terior of the prison again ; but that he, the Doctor, had 
obtained permission, and had remained in that Hall of 
Blood until the danger was over. 

Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to 
contend with would have jdelded before his persevering 
purpose. While he kept himself in his place, as a phy- 
sician whose business was with all degrees of mankind, 
bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his 
personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the in- 
specting physician of three prisons, and among them of 
La Force. He could now assure Lucie that her husband 
was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the 
general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, 
and brought sweet messages to her, straight from his lips; 
sometimes her husband himself sent a letter to her (though 
never by the Doctor’s hand), but she was not permitted 
to write to him; for among the many w T ild suspicions of 
plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emi- 
grants who were known to have made friends or perma- 
nent connections abroad. 

But though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased 
trying, to get Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least 
to get him brought to trial, the public current of the time 


CALM IN STORM 


161 


set too strong and fast for him. The new Era began; 
the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded ; the Republic 
of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for 
victory or death against the world in arms; the black 
flag waved night and day from the great towers of Notre 
Dame 1 ; three hundred thousand 2 men, summoned to rise 
against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the vary- 
ing soils of France, as if the dragon’s teeth had been sown 
broadcast, and had yielded fruit equally on hill and 
plain, under the bright sky of the South and under the 
clouds of the North, along the fruitful banks of the broad 
rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore. 

There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of 
relenting rest, no measurement of time. Though days 
and nights circled as regularly as when time was young, 
and the evening and the morning were the first day, 
other count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost 
in the raging fever of a nation, as it is in the fever of one 
patient. Now breaking the unnatural silence of a whole 
city, the executioner showed the people the head of the 
king — and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the 
head of his fair wife, which had had eight weary months 
of imprisoned widowhood and misery to turn it gray. 

Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, 
the Doctor walked with a steady head, confident in his 
power, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting 
that he would save Lucie’s husband at last. Yet the 
current of the time swept by so strong and deep, and 
carried the time away so fiercely, that Charles had lain 
in prison one year and three months when the Doctor 
was thus steady and confident. 

1 Notre Dame (nOtr-dam'); a great cathedral in Paris, the name means “ Our Lady.” 

2 This is the patriot army raised by the new Republic of France to meet the armies of 
Austria, Prussia, England, Holland, Spain; for all these nations had declared war against 
the French people. 


162 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER Y. 

BENEATH THE PKISON WINDOW. 

One year and three months. During all that time 
Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the 
Guillotine would strike off her husband’s head next day. 
Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrels 1 now 
jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls ; 
bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and gray; 
youths ; stalwart men and old ; gentle born and peasant 
born ; all red wine for La Guillotine, all daily brought 
into light from the dark cellars of the leathsome prisons, 
and carried to her through the streets to slake her de- 
vouring thirst. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death; 
the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine ! 

If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling 
wheels of the time, had stunned the Doctor’s daughter 
into awaiting the result in idle despair, it would but have 
been with her as it w r as with many. But from the hour 
when she had taken the white head to her fresh young 
bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true 
to her duties. She was truest to them in the season of 
trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be. 

As soon as they were established in their new residence, 
and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations, 
she arranged the little household as exactly as if her hus- 
band had been there. Everything had its appointed place 
and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught as regu- 
larly as if they had all been united in their English home. 
The slight devices with which she cheated herself into 
the show of belief that they would soon be reunited — 
the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting 

1 Kude carts. 


BENEATH THE PRISON WINDOW 


163 


aside of his chair and his books — these, and the solemn 
prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among 
the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of 
death — were almost the only outspoken reliefs of her 
heavy mind. 

She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain, 
dark dresses, akin to mourning dresses, which she and 
her child wore, were as neat and as well attended to as 
the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her color, 
and the old intent expression was a constant, not an oc- 
casional thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and 
comely. Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she 
would burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and 
would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on 
him. He always resolutely answered: “ Nothing can 
happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that 
I can save him, Lucie.” 

They had not made the round of their changed life 
many weeks, when her father said to her on coming 
home one evening — 

u My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to 
which Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the 
afternoon. When he can get to it — which depends on 
many uncertainties and incidents — he might see you in 
the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that 
I can show you. But you will not be able to see him, my 
poor child, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for 
you to make a sign of recognition.” 

“ Oh, show me the place, my father, and I will go 
there every day! ” 

From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two 
hours. As the clock struck two, she was there, and at 
four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too 
wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went 


164 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


together; at other times she was alone; but she never 
missed a single day. 

In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in 
the bitter winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, 
in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frost of 
winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at this place ; 
and every day, on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. 
Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it 
might be once in five or six times: it might be twice or 
thrice running: it might be not for a week or a fortnight 
together. It was enough that he could and did see her 
when the chances served, and on that possibility she would 
have waited out the day, seven days a week. 

These occupations brought her round to the December 
month, wherein her father walked among the terrors 
with a steady head. On a lightly snowing afternoon she 
arrived at the usual corner. 

Lifting her eyes, she exclaimed, “ Oh, my father! 55 
for he stood before her. 

“ I left him climbing to the window, and I came to tell 
you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss your 
hand towards that highest shelving roof . 55 

“ I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it ! 55 

“ You cannot see him, my poor dear? 55 

“ Ho, father , 55 said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she 
kissed her hand, “no . 55 

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “ I salute 
you, citizeness , 5 5 from the Doctor. “I salute you, citi- 
zen . 55 This in passing. Nothing more. Madame De- 
farge gone, like a shadow over the white road. 

“ Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with 
an air of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That 
was well done ; 55 they had left the spot; “ it shall not be 
in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow . 55 


TRIUMPH 


165 


“ For to-morrow ! 55 

“ There is no time to lose. I am well prepared. He 
has not received the notice yet, but I know that he will 
presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to 
the Conciergerie ; 1 I have timely information. You are 
not afraid? ” 

She could scarcely answer, “ I trust in you.” 
CHAPTER YI. 

TRIUMPH. 

The dread Tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, 
and determined Jury sat every day. Their lists went 
forth every evening, and were read out by the jailers of 
the various prisons to their prisoners. The standard jail- 
or-joke was, “ Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, 
you inside there! ” 

“ Charles Evremonde, called Darnay ! ” 

So, at last, began the Evening Paper at La Force. 

The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; 
and the night in its vermin-haunted cells was long and 
cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were put to the bar 
before Charles Darnay’s name was called. All the fif- 
teen were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied 
an hour and a half. 

“ Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length 
arraigned. 

His Judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but 
the rough red cap and tricolored cockade was the head- 
dress otherwise prevailing. Of the men, the greater part 
were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore 
knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked 

1 Conciergerie (kOn-syerzh-re') : an old prison in Paris. It was here that the queen 
was imprisoned. 


166 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


on, many knitted. Among these last was one with a 
spare piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She 
was in a front row, by the side of a man whom he had 
never seen since his arrival at the barrier, but whom he 
directly remembered as Defarge. Under the President 
sat Doctor Manette, in his usual quiet dress. 

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the 
public prosecutor as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit 
to the Republic, under the decree which banished all emi- 
grants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the decree 
bore date since his return to France. There he was, and 
there was the decree; he had been taken in France, and 
his head was demanded. 

“ Take off his head ! ” cried the audience. “ An enemy 
to the Republic ! 55 

The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and 
asked the prisoner whether it was not true that he had 
lived many years in England? 

Undoubtedly it was. 

Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call him- 
self? 

Hot an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit 
of the law. 

Why not ? the President desired to know. 

Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was 
distasteful to him, and a station that was distasteful to 
him, and had left his country — he submitted before the 
word emigrant, in the present acceptation by the Tribunal, 
was in use — to live by his own industry in England, 
rather than on the industry of the overladen people of 
France. 

What proof had he of this? 

He handed in the names of two witnesses: Theophile 
Gabelle and Alexandre Manette. 


TRIUMPH 


167 


But he had married in England? the President re- 
minded him. 

True, but not an Englishwoman. 

A citizeness of France? 

Yes. By birth. 

Her name and family ? 

“ Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the 
good physician who sits there.” 

This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. 
Cries in exaltation of the well-known good physician 
rent the hall. So capriciously were the people moved, 
that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious coun- 
tenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment 
before, as if with impatience to pluck him out into the 
street and kill him. 

On these few steps of his dangerous way Charles Dar- 
nay had set his foot according to Doctor Manette’ s reiter- 
ated instructions. The same cautious counsel directed 
every step that lay before him, and had prepared every 
inch of his road. 

The President asked why had he returned to France 
when he did, and not sooner ? 

He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because 
he had no means of living in France, save those he had 
resigned; whereas, in England, he lived by giving in- 
struction in the French language and literature. He had 
returned when he did on the pressing and written entreaty 
of a French citizen, who represented that his life was en- 
dangered by his absence. He had come back to save a 
citizen’s life, and to bear his testimony, at whatever per- 
sonal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal in the eyes 
of the Republic ? $F 

The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the 
President rang his bell to quiet them. Which it did not, 


168 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


for they continued to cry “No! ” until they left off of 
their own will. 

The President required the name of that citizen ? The 
accused explained that the citizen was his first witness. 
He also referred with confidence to the citizen’s letter, 
which had been taken from him at the barrier, but which 
he did not doubt would be found among the papers then 
before the President. 

The Doctor had taken care that it should be there — 
had assured him that it would be there — and at this stage 
of the proceedings it was produced and read. Citizen 
Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. 

Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high per- 
sonal popularity, and the clearness of his answers, made 
a great impression; but, as he proceeded, as he showed 
that the Accused was his first friend on his release from 
his long imprisonment; that the accused had remained in 
England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and 
himself in their exile; that so far from being in favor with 
the Aristocrat government there, he had actually been 
tried for his life by it, as the foe of England and friend of 
the United States — as he brought these circumstances 
into view, with the greatest discretion and with the 
straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the jury 
and the populace became one. At last, wdien he appealed 
by name to Monsieur Lorry, an English gentleman then 
and there present, w r ho, like himself, had been a witness 
on that English trial, and could corroborate his account 
of it, the jury declared that they had heard enough, and 
that they were ready with their votes if the President 
were content to receive them. 

At every vote (the jurymen voted aloud and individu- 
ally) the populace set up a shout of applause. All the 


TRIUMPH 


169 


voices were in the prisoner’s favor, and the President de- 
clared him free. 

Then began one of those extraordinary scenes with 
which the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness, 
or their better impulses towards generosity and mercy. 
No sooner was the acquittal pronounced than tears were 
shed as freely as blood at another time, and such fraternal 
embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of 
both sexes as could rush at him, that after his long and 
unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting 
from exhaustion; none the less because he knew very 
well that the very same people, carried by another cur- 
rent, would have rushed at him with the very same in- 
tensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the 
streets. 

They put him into a great chair they had among them, 
and which they had taken either out of the Court itself, 
or one of its rooms or passages. Over the chair they had 
thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they had bound a 
pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, 
not even the Doctor’s entreaties could prevent his being 
carried to his home on men’s shoulders, with a confused 
sea of red caps heaving about him, and casting up to sight 
from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that he more 
than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and 
that he was in the tumbrel on his way to the Guillotine. 

In wild dream-like procession, they carried him into 
the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father 
had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband 
stood upon his feet, she dropped insensible in his arms. 

As he held her to his heart, and turned her beautiful 
head between his face and the brawling crowd, so that his 
tears and her lips might come together unseen, a few of 
the people fell to dancing. Instantly all the rest fell to 


170 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmag- 
nole . 1 Then they elevated into the vacant chair a young 
woman from the crowd to be carried as the Goddess of 
Liberty, and then, swelling and overflowing out into the 
adjacent streets, and along the river’s bank, and over 
the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one, 
and whirled them away. 

After grasping the Doctor’s hand, as he stood victor- 
ious and proud before him; after grasping the hand of 
Mr. Lorry, who came panting in breathless from his strug- 
gle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole; after kiss- 
ing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round 
his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faith- 
ful Pross who lifted her ; he took his wife in his arms, 
and carried her up to their rooms. 

“ Lucie! My own! I am safe.” 

“ Oh, dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on 
my knees as I have prayed to Him! ” 

They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When 
she was again in his arms, he said to her — 

“ And now speak to your father, dearest. No other 
man in all this France could have done what he has done 
for me.” 

She laid her head upon her father’s breast as she had 
laid his poor head on her own breast long, long ago. He 
was happy in the return he had made her, he was recom- 
pensed for his suffering, he was proud of his strength. 
“ You must not be weak, my daring,” he remonstrated; 
“ don’t tremble so. I have saved him.” 

1 Carmagnole (kar-ma-nyol'): a wild dance that the revolutionists performed, often in 
the street, to express their patriotic zeal. Nothing could show more forcibly the char- 
acter of the people. 


A KNOCK AT THE DOOR 


171 


CHAPTER YII. 

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. 

“ I have saved him. ” It was not another of the dreams 
in which he had often come back; he v r as really here. 
And yet his wife trembled, and a vague but heavy fear 
was upon her. 

Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate su- 
periority to this woman’s weakness, which was wonderful 
to see. Ho garret, no shoemaking, no One Hundred and 
Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task 
he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had 
saved Charles. Let them all lean upon him. 

Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind; not only 
because that was the safest way of life, involving the least 
offence to the people, but because they were not rich, and 
Charles, throughout his imprisonment, had had to pay 
heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards 
the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, 
and partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant ; 
the citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the court- 
yard gate rendered them occasional service; and Jerry 
(almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had 
become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every 
night. 

For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher 
had discharged the office of purveyors; the former car- 
rying the money; the latter, the basket. Every after- 
noon, at about the time when the public lamps were 
lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and 
brought home such purchases as were needful. 

“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes 
were red with felicity; “if you are ready, I am.” 


172 


A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her 
father, and the child by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was ex- 
pected back presently from the Banking-house. Miss 
Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a 
corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. 
Little Lucie sat by her grandfather, with her hands clasped 
through his arm; and he, in a tone not rising much above 
a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and power- 
ful Fairy who had opened a prison wall, and let out a 
captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was 
subdued and quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she 
had been. 

“ What is that ? ” she cried all at once. 

“ My dear! ” said her father, stopping in his story and 
laying his hand on hers, “ command yourself. What a 
disordered state you are in ! The least thing — nothing — 
startles you. You, your father’s daughter?” 

“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, 
with a pale face and in a faltering voice, “that I heard 
strange feet upon the stairs.” 

“ My love, the staircase is as still as Death.” 

As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door. 

“ Oh, father, father! What can this be? Hide Charles! 
Save him! ” 

“My child,” said the Doctor, rising and laying his 
hand upon her shoulder, “ I have saved him. What weak- 
ness is this, my dear ? Let me go to the door. ” 

He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two interven- 
ing outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of 
feet over the floors, and four rough men in red caps, armed 
with sabres and pistols, entered the room. 

“The citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the 
first. 

“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay. 


A KNOCK AT THE DOOR 


173 


‘ ‘ I seek him. W e seek him. I know you, E vremonde ; 
I saw you before the Tribunal to-day. You are again the 
prisoner of the Republic. 

The four surrounded him where he stood with his wife 
and child clinging to him. 

“ Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner? ” 

“It is enough that you return straight to the Concier- 
gerie, and will know to-morrow. You are summoned for 
to-morrow.” 

Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned 
into stone that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if 
he were a statute made to hold it, moved after these words 
were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting the 
speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front 
of his red woollen shirt, said — 

“You know him, you have said. Do you know me ? 55 

“ Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.” 

“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other 
three. 

He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said 
in a lower voice, after a pause — 

“ Will you answer his question to me, then ? How does 
this happen? ” 

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly; “he has 
been denounced to the section of Saint Antoine. This 
citizen,” pointing out the second who had entered, “is 
from Saint Antoine.” 

The citizen here indicated nodded his head and added — 

“He is accused by Saint Antoine.” 

“ Of what? ” asked the Doctor. 

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former re- 
luctance, “ask no more. If the Republic demands sac- 
rifices from you, without doubt you, as a good patriot, 
will be happy to make them. The Republic goes be- 


174 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


fore all. The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are 
pressed.’ ’ 

“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell 
me who denounced him? ” 

“ It is against rule,” answered the first; “ but you can 
ask Him of Saint Antoine here.” 

The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. 

“ Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced 
— and gravely — by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. 
And by one other.” 

“What other?” 

“ Do you ask, Citizen Doctor? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, 
“you will be answered to-morrow. How I am dumb! ” 


CHAPTER, VIII. 

A HAND AT CARDS. 

Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, 
Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets, 
reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable pur- 
chases she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, 
walked at her side. 

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and 
a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought her- 
self of the wine they wanted. After peeping into sev- 
eral wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good Re- 
publican Brutus of Antiquity 1 , not far from the National 
Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect 
of things rather took their fancy. It had a quieter look 

1 You remember that Junius Brutus roused the early Romans to expel their kings, 
and that Marcus Brutus, in a later time, was one of those that assassinated Caesar. 


A HAND AT CARDS 


175 


than any other place of the same description they had 
passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not 
so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding 
him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Re- 
publican Brutus ofAntiquity, attended by her cavalier. 

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from 
another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going 
he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her than 
Miss Pross uttered a scream and clapped her hands. 

In a moment the whole company were on their feet. 
That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicat- 
ing a difference of opinion, was the likeliest occurrence. 
Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a 
man and woman standing staring at each other; the man 
with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thor- 
ough Republican; the woman, evidently English. 

“ What is the matter? ” said the man, who had caused 
Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice 
(though in a low tone), and in English. 

“ Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon! ” cried Miss Pross, clap- 
ping her hands again. “ After not setting eyes upon 
you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you 
here? 55 

“ Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death 
of me? ” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way. 

“ Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into 
tears. “ Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask 
me such a cruel question ? ” 

“ Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, 
“and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for 
your wine and come out. Who’s this man? ” 

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at 
her by no means affectionate brother, said, through her 
tears, “Mr. Cruncher.” 


176 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Let him come out too,” said Solomon. 4 ‘ Does he 
N think me a ghost ? ” 

Apparently Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. 
He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring 
the depths of her reticule through her tears with great 
difficulty, paid for the wine. As she did so, Solomon 
turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of 
Antiquity and offered a few words of explanation in the 
French language, which caused them all to relapse into 
their former places and pursuits. 

“ How,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street cor- 
ner, “ what do you want? ” 

“ How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever 
turned my love away from! ” cried Miss Pross, “ to give 
me such a greeting, and show me no affection.” 

“ There. Con-found it! There! ” said Solomon, mak- 
ing a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. 44 How are 
you content? ” 

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence. 

“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother 
Solomon, “I am not surprised; I knew you were here; 
I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t 
want to endanger my existence — which I half believe you 
do — go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go 
mine. I am busy. I am an official.” 

“ Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there 
is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain 
you no longer.” 

He was saying the affectionate word when Mr. Crun- 
cher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unex- 
pectedly interposed with the following singular ques- 
tion: 

“ I say ! Might I ask the favor ? As to whether your 
name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?” 


A HAND AT CARDS 


177 


The official turned towards him with sudden distrust, 
lie had not previously uttered a word. 

“ Come! ” said Mr. Cruncher. “ Speak out, you know. 
John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solo- 
mon, and she must know, being your sister. And /know 
you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? 
And regarding that name of Pross likewise. That warn’t 
your name over the water.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to 
mind what your name was over the water.” 

“No?” 

“ No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.” 

“ Indeed! ” 

“Yes. I know you. You was a spy- witness at the 
Bailey. What in the name of the Father of Lies, own 
father to yourself, was you called at that time ? ” 

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in. 

“ That’s the name for a thousand pound! ” cried Jerry. 

The speaker who struck in was Sydney Carton. lie 
had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding 
coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently 
as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at 
Mr. Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed 
that I would not present myself elsewhere until all 
was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself 
here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you 
had a better-employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish, 
for your sake, Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons. ’ ’ 

Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy under the 
jailers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked 
him how he dared — 

“ I’ll tell you,” said Sydney. “ I lighted on you, Mr. 

12 


178 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while 
I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You 
have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. 
Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and hav- 
ing a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating 
you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortu- 
nate, I walked in your direction. 1 walked into the wine- 
shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no 
difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, 
and the rumor openly going about among your admirers, 
the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had 
done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, 
Mr. Barsad.” 

“ What purpose?” the spy asked. 

“ It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to 
explain in the street. Could you favor me, in confidence, 
with some minutes of your company — at the office of Tell- 
son’s Bank, for instance?” 

“ Under a threat?” 

“ Oh! Did I say that?” 

“ Then why should I go there? ” 

“Beally, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.” 

“ Do you mean that you won’t say, sir ?” the spy irreso-' 
lutely asked. 

“ You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I 
won’t.” 

“ I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with 
you.” 

“ I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to 
the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss 
Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to 
be out in unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. 
Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are 
we ready? Come then!” 


A HAND AT CARDS 


179 


They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton 
led the way to Mr. Lorry’s, which was within a few min- 
utes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at 
his side. 

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting 
before a cheery little log or two of fire. He turned his 
head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which 
he saw a stranger. 

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Bar- 
sad.” 

‘ 6 Barsad ? ’ ’ repeated the old gentleman. ‘ ‘ Barsad ? I 
have an association with the name — and with the face.” 

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” 
observed Carton, coolly. “ Pray sit down.” 

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. 
Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness 
at that trial.” Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and 
regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of ab- 
horrence. 

“ Mr. Barsad has been recognized by Miss Pross as the 
affectionate brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, 
“ and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse 
news. Darnay has been arrested again.” 

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, 
“ What do you tell me? I left him safe and free within 
these two hours, and am about to return to him! ” 

“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Bar- 
sad?” 

“Just now, if at all.” 

“Now, I trust,” said Sydney, “that the name and 
influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good 
stead to-morrow — you said he would be before the Tri- 
bunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad? — ” 

“Yes; I believe so.” 


180 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ — In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may 
not be so. In short, this is a desperate time, when des- 
perate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the 
Doctor play the winning game; I will play the losing 
one. No man’s life here is worth purchase. Any one 
carried home by the people to-day may be condemned to- 
morrow. Now, the stake I have resolved to play for, in 
case of the worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And 
the friend I purpose to myself to win is Mr. Barsad.” 

“ You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy. 

“ I’ll run them over. I’ll see what I hold. Sheep of 
the prisons, emissary of Republican committees, now 
turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, 
represents himself to his employers under a false name. 
That’s a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ 
of the Republican F rench government, was formerly in the 
employ of the aristocratic English government, the en- 
emy of France and freedom. That’s an excellent card. 
Inference clear as day, in this region of suspicion, that 
Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English 
government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the 
Republic crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and 
agent of all mischief so much spoken of, and so difficult 
to find. That’s a card not to be beaten. Have you fol- 
lowed my hand, Mr. Barsad?” 

“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy 
somewhat uneasily. 

“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the 
nearest Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. 
Barsad, and see what you have. Don’t hurry. Look 
over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.” 

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad 
saw losing cards that Sidney Carton knew nothing of. 
He knew that under the overthrown government he had 


THE GAME MADE 


181 


been a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge’s wine-shop. 
Besides that all secret men are men soon terrified, here 
were surely cards enough of one black suit to justify the 
holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over. 

“ You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney 
with the greatest composure. “ Do you play?” 

The Sheep of the prisons turned to Sydney Carton and 
said, with decision, “It has come to a point. I go on 
duty soon, and can’t overstay my time. You told me 
you had a proposal; what is it? Now, it is of no use 
asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my 
office putting my head in great danger, and I had better 
trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the chances 
of consent. Now, what do you want with me?” 

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Concier- 
gerie? ” 

“ I tell you, once for all, there is no such thing as an 
escape,” said the spy, firmly. 

“ Why need you tell me what I have not asked ? You 
are a turnkey at the Conciergerie ? ” 

“I am sometimes.” 

“You can be when you choose? ” 

“ I can pass in and out when I choose.” 

“So far we have spoken before these two, because it 
was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest 
solely between you and me. Come into the dark room 
here, and let us have one final word alone.” 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE GAME MADE. 

Sydney Carton and the spy returned from the dark 
room. “ Adieu, Mr. Barsad! ” said the former: “ our ar- 
rangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me. ” 


182 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. 
Lorry. When they were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what 
he had done ? 

“ Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I 
have insured access to him once.” 

Mr. Lorry’s countenance fell. 

“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose 
too much would be to put this man’s head under the axe, 
and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to 
him if he were denounced. It was obviously the weak- 
ness of the position. There is no help for it.” 

“ But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go 
ill before the Tribunal, will not save him.” 

“ I never said it would.” 

Mr. Lorry’s eyes gradually sought the fire; his sym- 
pathy with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of 
this second arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an 
old man now, overborne with anxiety of late, and his 
tears fell. 

“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton 
in an altered voice. “ Forgive me if I notice that you are 
affected. I could not see my father weep and sit by care- 
less. And I could not respect your sorrow more, if you 
were my father. You are free from that misfortune, 
however.” 

Though he said the last words with a slip into his usual 
manner, there was a true feeling and respect both in 
his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Lorry, who had 
never seen the better side of him, was wholly unpre- 
pared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently 
pressed it. 

“ To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “ Don’t 
tell Her of this interview, or this arrangement. It w r ould 
not enable Her to go to see him. She might think it was 


THE GAME MADE 


183 


contrived, in case of the worst, to convey to him the 
means of anticipating 1 the sentence .’ 5 

Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked 
quickly at Carton to see if it were in his mind. It seemed 
to be; he returned the look, and evidently understood it. 

“ She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, 
“ and any of them would only add to her trouble. Don’t 
speak of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, 
I had better not see her. I can put my hand out to do 
any little helpful work for her that my hand can find to 
do without that. You are going to her, I hope? She 
must be very desolate to-night.” 

“I am going now, directly.” 

“ I’ll walk with you to her gate. You know my vaga- 
bond and restless habits. If I should prowl about the 
streets a long time, don’t be uneasy; I shall reappear in 
the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes, unhappily.” 

“ I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My 
spy will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir.” 

Mr. Lorry did so, and they went downstairs and out in 
the streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lor- 
ry’s destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at 
a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when 
it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going 
to the prison every day. “ She came out here,” he said, 
looking about him, “ turned this way, must have trod 
on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.” 

It was ten o’clock at night when he stood before the 
prison of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of 
times. Sydney stopped under a glimmering lamp, and 
wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then travers- 
ing, with the decided step of one who remembered the 

1 That is, of killing himself in his cell. 


184 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


way well, several dark and dirty streets — much dirtier 
than usual, for the best public thoroughfares remained un- 
cleansed in those times of terror — he stopped at a chem- 
ist’s shop, which the owner was closing with his own 
hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, 
uphill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man. 

Giving this citizen good-night, as he confronted him 
at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. 
“Whew!” the chemist whistled softly as he read it. 
“Hi! hi! hi!” 

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said — 
“For you, citizen?” 

“ For me.” 

“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? 
You know the consequences of mixing them?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

Certain small packets were made and given to him. 
He put them, on by one, in the breast of his inner coat, 
counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the 
shop. “ There is nothing more to do,” said he, glancing 
upward at the moon, “ until to-morrow. I can’t sleep.” 

It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he 
said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor 
was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It 
was the settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered 
and struggled, and got lost, but who at length struck into 
his road and saw its end. 

Long ago, when he had been famous among his earli- 
est competitors as a youth of great promise, he had fol- 
lowed his father to the grave. His mother had died years 
before. These solemn words, which had been read at his 
father’s grave, arose in his mind as he went down the 
dark streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon 
and the clouds sailing on high above him: “I am the 


THE GAME MADE 


185 


resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth 
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and who- 
soever livetli and believeth in me shall never die . 55 

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were 
liable to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red 
nightcaps, and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. But 
the theatres were all well filled, and the people poured 
cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At 
one of the theatre doors there was a little girl with a 
mother, looking for a way across the street through the 
mud. He carried the child over, and, before the timid 
arm was loosed from his neck, asked her for a kiss. 

u I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live : and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never 
die . 55 

How that the streets were quiet, and the night wore 
on, the words were in the echoes of his feet, and were in 
the air. Perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes re- 
peated them to himself as he walked; but he heard them 4 
always. 

The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge 
listening to the water as it splashed the river- walls of the 
Island of Paris , 1 where the picturesque confusion of houses 
and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the 
day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the 
sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, 
turned pale and died, and for a little while it seemed as 
if Creation were delivered over to Death’s dominion. 

But the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those 
words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to 
his heart in its long, bright rays. And looking along 

1 A small island in the Seine, in the midst of Paris. The city began on this island 
and then spread on each side of the river. Here Notre Dame is situated. 


186 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


them with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light ap- 
peared to span the air between him and the sun, while 
the river sparkled under it. 

The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like 
a congenial friend in the morning stillness. He walked 
by the stream, far from the houses, and in the light and 
warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank. When he 
awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little 
longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned pur- 
poseless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried it on 
to the sea — “ Like me ! 55 

A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened color of a 
dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and 
died away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, 
the prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a mer- 
ciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, 
ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the 
life.” 

Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it 
was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. 
Sydney Carton drank nothing but a little coffee, ate some 
bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh him- 
self, went out to the place of trial. 

The Court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black 
Sheep — whom many fell away from in dread — pressed 
him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry 
was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there, 
sitting beside her father. 

When her husband was brought in, she turned a look 
upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admir- 
ing love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for 
his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, 
brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If there 
had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look on 


THE GAME MADE 


187 


Sydney Carton, it would have been seen to be the same 
influence exactly. 

Before that unjust Tribunal there was little or no order 
of procedure, insuring to any accused person any reason- 
able hearing. There could have been no such Revolution, 
if all laws, and forms, and ceremonies had not first been 
so monstrously abused that the suicidal vengeance of the 
Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds. 

Every eye was turned to the jury. The same deter- 
mined patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the 
day before, and to-morrow and the day after. 

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yester- 
day. Re-accused and retaken yesterday. Indictment 
delivered to him last night. Suspected and Denounced 
enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of 
tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used 
their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of 
the people. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, in right 
of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law. 

To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public 
prosecutor. 

The President asked, was the accused openly denounced 
or secretly ? 

“ Openly, President.” 

“ By whom? ” 

“ Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vender of Saint 
Antoine.” 

“ Good.” 

“ Therese Defarge, his wife.” 

“Good.” 

“Alexandre Manette, physician.” 

A great uproar took place in the Court, and in the 
midst of it, Doctor Manette was seen, pale and trem- 
bling, standing where he had been seated. 


188 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ President, I indignantly protest to you that this is 
a forgery and a fraud. You know the accused to be the 
husband of my daughter. My daughter, and those dear 
to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who and where 
is the false conspirator who says that I denounced the 
husband of my child? 55 

“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission 
to the authority of the Tribunal would be to put yourself 
out of Law. As to what is dearer to you than life, noth- 
ing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.” 

Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President 
rang his bell, and with warmth resumed. 

“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice 
of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sac- 
rifice her. Listen to what is to follow. In the mean- 
while be silent! ” 

Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Ma- 
nette sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his 
lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him. 

Defarge was produced, when the Court was quiet enough 
to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the 
story of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere 
boy in the Doctor’s service, and of the release, and of the 
state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him. 
This short examination followed, for the Court was quick 
with its work. 

“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, 
citizen? ” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within 
the Bastille, citizen.” 

“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, 
who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was 
raised, looking steadily up at him, “ I knew that this pris- 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


189 


oner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known 
as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from 
himself. He knew himself by no other name than One 
Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes 
under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, 
when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. 
I mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of 
the jury, directed by a jailer. I examine it very closely. 
In a hole in the chimney, where a stone had been worked 
out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is that 
written paper. I have made it my business to examine 
some specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette. This 
is the writing of Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, 
in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the 
President.” 

“ Let it be read.” 

In a dead silence and stillness — the prisoner under trial 
looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from 
him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette 
keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge 
never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never tak- 
ing his from his wife, and all the other eyes there intent 
upon the Doctor, who saw none of them — the paper was 
read as follows. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW. 

“ I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native 
of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this 
melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during 
the last month of the year 1767. I write it at stolen in- 
tervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it in 
the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and labori- 


190 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitying 
hand may find it there, when I and my sorrows are 
dust. 

“ These words are formed by the rusty iron point with 
which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and 
charcoal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last 
month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite 
departed from my breast. I know, from terrible warn- 
ings I have noted in myself, that my reason will not long 
remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at 
this time in the possession of my right mind — that my 
memory is exact and circumstantial — and that I v^rite 
the truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded 
words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the 
Eternal Judgment-seat. 

“ One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of 
December (I think the twenty-second of the month), in 
the year 1757, I was w r alking on a retired part of the 
quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, 
at an hour’s distance from my place of residence in the 
Street of the School of Medicine, when a carriage came 
along behind me, driven very fast. As I stood aside to 
let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it might other- 
wise run me down, a head w^as put out at the w r indow T , and 
a voice called to the driver to stop. 

“ The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein 
in his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name. 
I answered. The carriage was then so far in advance of 
me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and 
alight before I came up with it. I observed that they 
were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal 
themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage- 
door, I also observed that they both looked of about my 
own age, or rather younger, and that they w^ere greatly 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


191 


alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as I could see) 
face too. 

“ ‘You are Doctor Manette? ’ said one. 

“‘Iam.’ 

“‘Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,’ said the 
other; ‘ the young physician, originally an expert sur- 
geon, who, within the last year or two, has made a ris- 
ing reputation in Paris ? ’ 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’ I returned, ‘ I am that Doctor Manette 
of whom you speak so graciously.’ 

“‘We have been to your residence,’ said the first, ‘ and 
not being so fortunate as to find you there, and being 
informed that you were probably walking in this direc- 
tion, we followed, in the hope of overtaking you. Will 
you please to enter the carriage ? ’ 

“The manner of both was imperious, and they both 
moved, as these w r ords were spoken, so as to place me be- 
tween themselves and the carriage door. They were 
armed. I was not. 

“ ‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘pardon me; but I usually in- 
quire who does me the honor to seek my assistance, and 
what is the nature of the case to which I am summoned.’ 

“ The reply to this was made by him who had spoken 
second. ‘Doctor, your clients are people of condition. 
As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill 
assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better 
than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to 
enter the carriage ? ’ 

“ I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in 
silence. They both entered after me — the last spring- 
ing in, after putting up the steps. The carriage turned 
about and drove on at its former speed. 

“ I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I 
have no doubt that it is, word for word, the same. I de- 


192 


A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


scribe everything exactly as it took place, constraining my 
mind not to wander from the task. Where I make the 
broken marks that follow here, I leave olf for the time, 
and put my paper in its hiding place. * * * * 

“ The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North 
Barrier, and emerged upon the country road. At two- 
thirds of a league from the barrier — I did not estimate 
the distance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed 
it — it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped 
at a solitary house. We all three alighted, and walked, 
by a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected 
fountain had overflowed, to the door of the house. It was 
not opened immediately in answer to the ringing of the 
bell, and one of my conductors struck the man who opened 
it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face. 

“ There was nothing in this action to attract my par- 
ticular attention, for I had seen common people struck 
more commonly than dogs. But the other of the two, 
being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner with 
his arm: the look and bearing of the brothers were then so 
exactly alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin 
brothers. 

“ From the time of our alighting at the outer gate 
(which we found locked, and which one of the brothers 
had opened to admit us, and had relocked), I had heard 
cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was con- 
ducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder 
as we ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high 
fever of the brain, lying on a bed. 

“ The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; 
assuredly not much past twenty. Her hair was torn 
and ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with 
sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds 
were all portions of a gentleman’s dress. On one of 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


193 


them, which was a fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, 
I saw the armorial bearing of a Noble, and the letter E. 

“ I saw this within the first minute of my contemplation 
of the patient ; for, in her restless strivings, she had turned 
over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the 
end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suf- 
focation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve 
her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the em- 
broidery in the corner caught my sight. 

“ I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her 
breast to calm her and keep her down, and looked into 
her face. Her eyes were dilated and wild, and she con- 
stantly uttered piercing shrieks. 

“ 6 See, gentlemen,’ said I, still keeping my hands upon 
her breast, 4 how useless I am as you have brought me ! 
If I had known what I was coming to see, I could have 
come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are 
no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.’ 

“ The elder brother looked to the younger, who said 
haughtily, ‘ There is a case of medicines here,’ and brought 
it from a closet, and put it on the table. * * * * 

“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, 
and after many efforts, the dose that I desired to give. 
As I intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was 
necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down by the 
side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed 
woman in attendance (wife of the man downstairs), who 
had retreated into a corner. The house was damp and 
decayed, indifferently furnished — evidently recently occu- 
pied and temporarily used. The only spark of encour- 
agement in the case was, that my hand upon the sufferer’s 
breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes 
at a time it tranquillized the figure. It had no effect 
upon theories; no pendulum could be more regular. 

13 


194 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), 
I had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the 
two brothers looking on, before the elder said — 

“ ‘ There is another patient.’ 

“ I was startled and asked, ‘ Is it a pressing case? ’ 

“‘You had better see,’ he carelessly answered; and 
took up a light. * * * * 

“ The other patient lay in a back-room across a second 
staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. On 
some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under 
his head, lay a handsome peasant boy — a boy of not 
more than seventeen at the most. He lay on his back, 
with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, 
and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. 1 could 
not see where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee 
over him; but I could see that he was dying of a wound 
from a sharp point. 

“ ‘I am a doctor, my poor fellow,’ said I. ‘Let me 
examine it.’ 

“ ‘I do not want it examined,’ he answered; ‘let it 
be.’ 

“ It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me 
move his hand away. The wound was a sword thrust, 
received froln twenty to twenty-four hours before, but 
no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to with- 
out delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my 
eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at this 
handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a 
wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were 
a fellow-creature. 

“ ‘ How has this been done, monsieur? ’ said I. 

“ ‘ A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my 
brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother’s 
sword — like a gentleman.’ 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


195 


“ There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred hu- 
manity in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowl- 
edge that it was inconvenient to have that different order 
of creature dying there, and that it would have been bet- 
ter if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his 
vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassion- 
ate feeling about the boy or about his fate. 

“ The boy’s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had 
spoken, and they now slowly moved to me. 

“ doctor, they are very proud, these Hobles; but we 
common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder 
us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, some- 
times. She — Have you seen her, Doctor ? 5 

“ I said, ‘ I have seen her.’ 

“ ‘ She is my sister, Doctor. She was a good girl. 
She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a tenant of 
his. We were all tenants of his — that man’s who stands 
there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad 
race. ’ 

“ It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gath- 
ered bodily force to speak; but his spirit spoke with a 
dreadful emphasis. 

We were so robbed by that man who stands there, 
as all we common dogs are by those superior Beings — 
taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for him 
without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged 
to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and 
forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our 
own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we 
chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in. fear, with the 
door barred and the shutters closed, that his people should 
not see it and take it from us.’ 

“ Nothing human could have held life in the boy but 
his determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back 


196 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the gathering shadows of death, as he forced his clenched 
right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound. 

“ ‘ Then, with that man’s permission, and even with his 
aid, his brother took my sister away. I saw her pass me 
on the road. When I took the tidings home, our father’s 
heart burst; he never spoke one of the words that filled 
it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place 
beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will 
never be his vassal. Then I tracked the brother here, and 
last night climbed in — a common dog, but sword in hand. 
Where is the loft window ? It was somewhere here . 5 

“ The room was darkening to his sight; the world was 
narrowing around him. I glanced about me, and saw 
that the hay and stray were trampled over the floor, as 
if there had been a struggle. 

“ ‘ She heard me and ran in. I told her not to come 
near us till he was dead. He came in, and first tossed me 
some pieces of money; then struck at me with a whip. 
But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make 
him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will 
the sword that he stained with my common blood; he 
drew to defend himself — thrust at me with all his skill 
for his life.’ 

“ My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on 
the fragments of a broken sword lying among the hay. 
That weapon was a gentleman’s. In another place lay 
an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier’s. 

“ ‘ How lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he? ’ 

“ 4 He is not here,’ I said, supporting the boy, and 
thinking that he referred to the brother. 

“ 4 He! Proud as these Hobles are, he is afraid to see 
me. Where is the man who was here? Turn my face 
to him.’ 

44 I did so, raising the boy’s head against my knee. But, 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


197 


invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he 
raised himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or I 
could not have still supported him. 

“ ‘ Marquis,’ said the boy, turning to him with his eyes 
opened wide and his right hand raised, 4 in the days when 
all these things are to be answered for, I summon you 
and yours to the last of your bad race, to answer for 
them. I mark this cross of blood upon you as a sign 
that I do it. In the days when all these things are to 
be answered for, I summon your brother, the worst of the 
bad race, to answer for them separately. I mark this 
cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do it. ’ 

“ Twice he put his hand to the wound in his breast, 
and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood 
for an instant with his finger yet raised, and, as it dropped, 
he dropped with it, and I laid him down dead. * * * * 

“ When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, 
I found her raving in precisely the same order and con- 
tinuity. I knew that this might last for many hours, 
and that it would probably end in the silence of the 
grave. 

“ I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat 
at the side of the bed until the night wns far advanced. 
I had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, 
when she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead. 

“ 4 Is she dead? ’ asked the Marquis, whom I will still 
describe as the elder brother, coming booted into the 
room from his horse. 

“ ‘ Not dead,’ said I; ‘ but like to die.’ 

“ ‘ What strength there is in these common bodies! ’ he 
said, looking down at her with some curiosity. 

“ ‘ There is prodigious strength,’ I answered him, ‘in 
sorrow and despair.’ 

“ He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at 


198 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


them. He moved a chair with his foot near to mine and 
said, in a subdued voice — 

“ 4 Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with 
these hinds, I recommended that your aid should be in- 
vited. Your reputation is high, and, as a young man 
with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of 
your interest. The things that you see are things to be 
seen, and not spoken of.’ , 

“I listened to the patient’s breathing, and avoided 
answering. 

“ ‘ Do you honor me with your attention, Doctor? ’ 
u ‘ Monsieur,’ said I, ‘ in my profession, the communi- 
cations of patients are always received in confidence.’ I 
was guarded in my answer, for I was troubled in my 
mind by what I had heard and seen. 

“ Her breathing was so difficult to trace that I care- 
fully tried the pulse and the heart. There was life, and 
no more. Looking round as I resumed my seat, I found 
both the brothers intent upon me. * * * * 

“ I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, 
I am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an 
underground cell and total darkness, that I must abridge 
this narrative. There is no confusion or failure in my 
memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that 
was ever spoken between me and those brothers. 

“ She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could 
understand some few syllables that she said to me by 
placing my ear close to her lips. She asked me where 
she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It 
was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She 
faintly shook her head upon the pillow, and kept her 
secret, as the boy had done. 

“My patient died two hours before midnight — at a 
time, by my watch, answering almost to the minute when 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


199 


I had first seen her. I was alone with her, when her for- 
lorn young head drooped gently on one side, and all her 
earthly wrongs and sorrows ended. 

“ The brothers were waiting in a room downstairs, im- 
patient to ride away. I had heard them, alone at the 
bedside, striking their boots with their riding whips, and 
loitering up and down. 

“ ‘ At last she is dead ? 5 said the elder when I went in. 

“ She is dead,’ said I. 

“ ‘ I congratulate you, my brother, 5 were his words as 
he turned round. 

“ He had before offered me money, which I had post- 
poned taking. He now gave me a rouleau 1 of gold. I 
took it from his hand, but laid it on the table. I had 
considered the question, and had resolved to accept noth- 
ing. 

“ ‘ Pray excuse me, 5 said I. ‘ Under the circumstances, 
no. 5 

“ They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as 
I bent mine to them, and we parted without another word 
on either side. * * * * 

“ I am weary, weary, weary — worn down by misery. 
I cannot read what I have written with this gaunt hand. 

4 ‘ Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left 
at my door in a little box, with my name on the outside. 
From the first, 1 had anxiously considered what I ought 
to do. I decided, that day, to write privately to the Min- 
ister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had 
been summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in 
effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what court 
influence was, and what the immunities 2 of the Nobles 
were, and I expected that the matter would never be heard 
of; but I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept 

1 A roll of coins. 2 Freedom from penalty. 


200 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the matter a profound secret, even from my wife; and 
this, too, I resolved to state in my letter. I had no ap- 
prehension whatever of my real danger; but I was con- 
scious that there might be danger for others, if others 
were compromised by possessing the knowledge that I 
possessed. 

“I was much engaged that day, and could not com- 
plete my letter that night. I rose long before my usual 
time next morning to finish it. It was the last day of the 
year. The letter was lying before me just completed, 
when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see 
me. *f* 

“ I am growing more and more unequal to the task I 
have set myself. It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so 
benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so dreadful. 

“ The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but 
not marked for long life. She was in great agitation. 
She presented herself to me as the wife of the Marquis 
St. Evremonde. I connected the title by w r hich the boy 
*had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter 
embroidered on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriv- 
ing at the conclusion that I had seen that nobleman very 
lately. 

u My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the 
w r ords of our conversation. I suspect that I am watched 
more closely than I was, and I know not at what times 
I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and in 
part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her 
husband’s share in it, and my being resorted to. She did 
not know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, 
she said in great distress, to show her, in secret, a wom- 
an’s sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath 
of Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to 
the suffering many. 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


201 


44 She had reasons for believing that there was a young 
sister living, and her greatest desire was to help that 
sister. I could tell her nothing but that there was such 
a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her inducement 
to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the 
hope that I could tell her the name and place of abode. 
Whereas, to this wretched hour, I am ignorant of both. 

44 These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from 
me, with a warning, yesterday. I must finish my record 
to-day. 

44 She was a good, compassionate lady and not happy 
in her marriage. How could she be ? The brother dis- 
trusted and disliked her, and his influence was all o pposed 
to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her 
husband, too. When I handed her down to the door, 
there was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years 
old, in her carriage. 

44 4 For his sake, Doctor, 5 she said, pointing to him in 
tears, 4 1 would do all I can to make what poor amends I 
can. He will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. 
I have a presentiment that, if no other innocent atone- 
ment is made for this, it will one day be required of him. 
What I have left to call my own — it is little beyond the 
worth of a few jewels — I will make it the first charge of 
his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of 
his dead mother, on this injured family, if the sister can 
be discovered. 5 

44 She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 4 It is 
for thine own dear sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little 
Charles? 5 1 The child answered her bravely, 4 Yes! 5 I 
kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms and went 
away caressing him. I never saw her more. 

1 This is, of course, Charles Darnay. 


202 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ As she had mentioned her husband’s name in the faith 
that I knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I 
sealed my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, 
delivered it myself that day. 

“ That night, the last night of the year, towards nine 
o’clock, a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded 
to see me, and softly followed my servant, Ernest De- 
farge, a youth, upstairs. When my servant came into 
the room w r here I sat with my wife — Oh, my wife, be- 
loved of my heart ! My fair young English wife ! — we 
saw the man, who was supposed to be at the gate, stand- 
ing silent behind him. 

“ An urgent case in the Eue St. Honore, he said. It 
would not detain me; he had a coach in waiting. 

“It brought me here; it brought me to my grave. 
When I was clear of the house, a black muffler was drawn 
tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were 
pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a 
dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The 
marquis took from his pocket the letter I had written, 
showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was 
held, and extinguished the ashes w r ith his foot. Not a 
word was spoken. I was brought here; I was brought 
to my living grave. 

“If it had pleased God to put it in the hard heart of 
either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant 
me any tidings of my dearest wife — so much as to let me 
know by a word whether alive or dead — I might have 
thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But 
now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to 
them, and that they have no part in His mercies. And 
them and their descendants, to the last of their race, I, 
Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night 
of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


203 


the times when all these things shall be answered for. I 
denounce them to heaven and to earth .” 1 

A terrible sound arose when the reading of this docu- 
ment was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that 
had nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative 
called up the most revengeful passions of the time, and 
there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped 
before it. 

Little need, in presence of that Tribunal and that audi- 
tory, to show how the Defarges had not made the paper 
public, with the other captured Bastille memorials borne 
in procession, and had kept it, biding their time. Little 
need to show that this detested family name had long been 
anathematized 2 by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into 
the fatal register. The man never trod ground whose 
virtues and services would have sustained him in that 
place, that day, against such denunciation. 

“Much influence around him has that Doctor! ” mur- 
mured Madame Defarge, smiling, to The Yengeance. 
“Save him now, my Doctor, save him!” 

At every juryman’s vote there was a roar. Another, 
and another. Roar and roar. 

Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aris- 
tocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor 
of the People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death 
within four and twenty hours! 

1 Now we understand the connection between Charles Darnay and Dr. Manette, and 
why the discovery of the true name of Darnay at the time of his marriage with Lucie so 
agitated Dr. Manette. 
a Cursed. 


204 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTEK XI. 

DUSK. 

The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed 
to die fell under the sentence as if she had been mortally 
stricken. But she uttered no sound; and so strong w r as 
the voice within her, representing that it was she of all 
the world who must uphold him in his misery, and not 
augment it, that it quickly raised her, even from that 
shock. 

The Judges having to take part in a public demonstra- 
tion out of doors, the Tribunal adjourned. The quick 
noise and movement of the Court’s emptying itself by 
many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood stretch- 
ing out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in 
her face but love and consolation. 

“ If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! 
Oh, good citizens, if you would have so much compassion 
for us! ” 

There was but a jailer left, along with two of the four 
men who had taken him last night, and Barsad. The 
people had all poured out to the show in the streets. Bar- 
sad proposed to the rest, “ Let her embrace him, then; it 
is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and 
they passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, 
where he, by leaning over the dock, could fold her in his 
arms. 

“ Farewell, dear darling of my soul ! My parting bless- 
ing on my love. We shall meet again, where the weary 
are at rest ! ’ ’ 

They were her husband’s words, as he held her to his 
bosom. 


DUSK 


205 


“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from 
above; don’t suffer for me. A parting blessing for our 
child! ” 

“ I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say 
farewell to her by you.” 

“ My husband! No! A moment! ” He was tearing 
himself apart from her. “We shall not be separated 
long. I feel that this will break my heart by and by: 
but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, 
God will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.” 

Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on 
his knees to both of them, but that Darnay put out a 
hand and seized him, crying — 

“ No, no! What have you done, what have you done, 
that you should kneel to us? We know now what a 
struggle you made of old. We know now what you 
underwent when you suspected my descent, and when 
you knew it. We know now the natural antipathy you 
strove against, and conquered, for her dear sake. We 
thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and 
duty. Heaven be with you! ” 

As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood 
looking after him with her hands touching one another 
in the attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look upon 
her face, in which there was even a comforting smile. 
As he went out at the prisoners’ door, she turned, laid 
her head lovingly on her father’s breast 3 tried to speak 
to him, and fell at his feet. 

Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he 
had never moved, Sydney Carton came and took her up. 
Only her father and Mr. Lorry were with her. His arm 
trembled as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet 
there was an air about him that was not all of pity — that 
had a flush of pride in it. 


206 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her 
weight.” 

He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly 
down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got 
into it, and he took his seat beside the driver. 

When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused 
in the dark not many hours before, to picture to himself 
on which of the rough stones of the street her feet had 
trodden, he lifted her again and carried her up the stair- 
case to their rooms. There he laid her down on a couch, 
where her child and Miss Pross wept over her. 

‘ c Before I go, 5 ’ he said, and paused — “I may kiss her ? 5 ’ 

It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down 
and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some 
words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them 
afterwards, and told her grandchildren, when she was a 
handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “ A life you 
love.” 

When he had gone out into the next room, he turned 
suddenly on Mr. Lorry and her father, who w r ere follow- 
ing, and said to the latter — 

u You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Ma- 
nette; let it, at least, be tried.” 

“ Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from 
me. I had the strongest assurances that I should save 
him; and I did.” He returned the answer in great trou- 
ble, and very slowly. 

“ Try them again.” 

“ I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.” 

“ If I go to Mr. Lorry’s at nine, shall I hear what you 
have done, either from your friend or from yourself? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ May you prosper! ” 

Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, 


DARKNESS 


207 


touching him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused 
him to turn. 

“ I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrow- 
ful whisper. 

“ Nor have I.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

DARKNESS. 

Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided 
where to go. “ At Tellson’s Banking-house at nine,” he 
said with a musing face. “ Shall I do well, in the mean- 
time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that these 
people should know there is such a man as I here; it is 
a sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation.” 

Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper 
of a wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not 
difficult for one who knew the city well to find the place. 

As Carton walked in, took his seat, and asked (in very 
indifferent 1 French) for a small measure of wine, Madame 
Defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, 
and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and 
asked him what it was he had ordered. 

He repeated what he had already said. 

“ English ? ” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively rais- 
ing her dark eyebrows. 

After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single 
French word were slow to express itself to him, he an- 
swered, in his former strong foreign accent, “Yes, 
madame, yes. I am English.” 

Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the 
wine, and, as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned 

1 Poor. 


208 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, 
“ I swear to you, like Evremonde! ” 

Carton followed the lines and words of his paper with 
a slow forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. 
They were all leaning their arms on the counter close to- 
gether, speaking low. After a silence of a few moments, 
during which they all looked towards him without dis- 
turbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, 
they resumed their conversation. 

“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques 
Three. “ Why stop ? There is great force in that. Why 
stop? ” 

“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop 
somewhere. After all, the question is still where? ” 

“At extermination,” said madame. 

“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said De- 
farge, rather troubled; “ in general, I say nothing against 
it. But this Doctor has suffered much; you have seen 
him to-day; you have observed his face when the paper 
was read.” 

“I have observed his face,” repeated madame, con- 
temptuously and angrily. “Yes, I have observed his 
face. I have observed his face to be not the face of a 
true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his 
face! ” 

“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge in 
a deprecatory manner, “the anguish of his daughter, 
which must be a dreadful anguish to him! ” 

“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; 
“ yes, I have observed his daughter more times than one. 
I have observed her to-day, and I have observed her other 
days. T observed her in the Court, and I have 

observed ner in the street by the prison. Let me but 
lift my finger — ! ” She seemed to raise it (the listen- 


DARKNESS 


209 


er’s eyes were always on his paper), and to let it fall 
with a rattle on the ledge before her, as if the axe had 
dropped. 

“ As to thee,” pursued raadame implacably, address- 
ing her husband, “if it depended on thee — which, hap- 
pily, it does not — thou wouldst rescue this man even 
now.” 

“ No! ” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass 
would do it! But I would leave the matter there. I 
say, stop there ! 5 ’ 

“ See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge wrath - 
fully; “and see you, too, my little Vengeance; see you, 
both! Listen! For other crimes as tyrants and oppres- 
sors, I have this race a long time on my register, doomed 
to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is 
that so ? ” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked. 

“ In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille 
falls, he finds this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, 
and in the middle of the night, when this place is clear 
and shut, we read it, here on this spot, by the light of 
this lamp. Ask him, is that so? ” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge. 

“ That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, 
and the lamp is burnt out, and the day is gleaming in 
above those shutters and between those iron bars, that I 
have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is that 
so? ” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge again. 

“ I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom 
with these two hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 
c Defarge, I was brought up among the fishermen of the 
seashore, and that peasant family so injured by the two 
Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, 
14 


210 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


is my family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally 
wounded boy upon the ground was my sister, that 
brother was my brother, that father was my father, 
those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer 
for those things descend to me.’ Ask him, is that 
so?” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge once more. 

“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned 
madame; “but don’t tell me.” 

Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The 
English customer paid for what he had had, perplexedly 
counted his change, and asked, as a stranger, to be di- 
rected towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge 
took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing 
out the road. The English customer was not without his 
reflections then, that it might be a good deed to seize that 
arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and deep. 

But he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the 
shadow of the prison wall. At the appointed hour he 
emerged from it to present himself in Mr. Lorry’s room 
again, where he found the old gentleman walking to 
and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been wdth 
Lucie until now, and had only left her for a few minutes to 
come and keep his appointment. Her father had not been 
seen since he quitted the Banking-house towards four 
o’clock. She had some faint hopes, that his mediation 
might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had 
been more than five hours gone: where could he be? 

They were discussing this question, and were almost 
building up some weak structure of hope on his prolonged 
absence, when they heard him on the stairs. The in- 
stant he entered the room, it was plain that all was 
lost. 

Whether he had really been to any one, or wdiether he 


DARKNESS 


211 


had been all that time traversing the streets, was never 
known. As he stood staring at them, they asked him no 
question, for his face told them everything. 

c ‘ I cannot find it , 5 5 said he, ‘ ‘ and I must have it. Where 
is it? 55 

His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with 
a helpless look straying all around, he took his coat off 
and let it drop on the floor. 

“ Where is my bench ? I have been looking everywhere 
for my bench, and I can’t find it. What have they done 
with my work ? Time presses : I must finish those shoes. ’ 5 

Lost, utterly lost! 

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or 
try to restore him, that — as if by agreement — they each 
put a hand upon his shoulder and soothed him to sit down 
before the fire, with a promise that he should have his 
work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded 
over the embers, and shed tears. As if all that had hap- 
pened since the garret time were a momentary fancy, or 
a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure 
that Defarge had had in keeping. 

“The last chance is gone,” said Carton; “it was not 
much. Yes; he had better be taken to her. But, be- 
fore you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to 
me? Don’t ask me why I make the stipulations I am 
going to make, and exact the promise I am going to exact ; 
I have a reason — a good one.” 

“ I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “ Say on.” 

The figure in the chair between them was all the time 
monotonously rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. 
They spoke in such a tone as they would have used if they 
had been watching by a sick-bed in the night. 

Carton stopped to pick up the coat which lay almost 
entangling his feet. As he did so, a small case, in which 


212 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the Doctor was accustomed to carry the list of his day’s 
duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton took it up, and 
there was a folded paper in it. “We should look at 
this?” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He 
opened it, and exclaimed, “ Thank God! ” 

“ What is it? ” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly. 

<c A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First ” 
— he put his hand in his coat and took another paper from 
it — “ that is the certificate which enables me to pass out 
of this city. Look at it. You see — Sydney Carton, an 
Englishman ? ” 

Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest 
face. 

“ Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to- 
morrow, and I had better not take it into the prison.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ I don’t know : I prefer not to do so. Now, take this 
paper that Doctor Manette has carried about him. It is 
a similar certificate, enabling him and his daughter and 
her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the frontier. 
You see? ” 

“Yes! ” 

“ Perhaps he obtained it, as his last and utmost precau- 
tion against evil, yesterday. When is it dated? But no 
matter: don’t stay to look; put it up carefully with mine 
and your own. How, observe! I never doubted, until 
within this hour or two, that he had, or could have, such 
a paper. It is good until recalled. But it may be soon 
recalled, and I have reasons to think, will be.” 

“They are not in danger?” 

“ They are in great danger. They are in danger of de- 
nunciation by Madame Defarge. I know it from her 
own lips. I have overheard words of that woman’s to- 
night, which have presented their danger to me in strong 


DARKNESS 


213 


colors. Don’t look horrified. You will save them all.” 

“ Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?” 

“ I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, 
and it could depend on no better man. This new denun- 
ciation will certainly not take place until after to-morrow; 
probably not until two or three days afterwards; more 
probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital 
crime to mourn for, or sympathize with, a victim of the 
Guillotine. She and her father would unquestionably be 
guilty of this crime, and this woman would wait to add 
that strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. 
You follow me? ” 

“ So attentively, and with so much confidence in what 
you say, that for the moment I lose sight,” touching the 
back of the Doctor’s chair, “even of this distress.” 

“You have money, and can buy the means of travel- 
ling to the sea-coast as quickly as the journey can be made. 
Your preparations have been completed for some days to 
return to England. Early to-morrow have your horses 
ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o’clock 
in the afternoon.” 

“ It shall be done! ” 

His manner was so fervent and inspiring that Mr. Lorry 
caught the flame, and was as quick as youth. 

“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend 
upon no better man ? Tell her, to-night, what you know 
of her danger as involving her child and her father. 
Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head be- 
side her husband’s cheerfully.” He faltered for an in- 
stant; then went on as before, “For the sake of her child 
and her father, press upon her the necessity of leaving 
Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell her that 
it was her husband’s last arrangement. Tell her that 
more depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. 


214 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


You think that her father, even in this sad state, will 
submit himself to her; do you not?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“I thought so. Quietly and steadily, have all these 
arrangements made in the courtyard here, even to the 
taking of your own seat in the carriage. The moment I 
come to you, take me in, and drive away.” 

“ I understand that I wait for you under all circum- 
stances.” 

“ You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, 
you know, and will reserve my place. Wait for nothing 
but to have my place occupied, and then for England! ” 

“ Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but 
so firm and steady hand, “ it does not all depend on one 
old man, but I shall have a young and ardent man at my 
side.” 

“ By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me sol- 
emnly that nothing will influence you to alter the course 
on which we now stand pledged to one another.” 

“ Nothing, Carton.” 

“ Bern ember these words to-morrow: change the course 
or delay in it — for any reason — and no life can possibly 
be saved, and many lives must inevitably be sacrificed.” 

“ I will remember them. I hope to do my part faith- 
fully.” 

“ And I hope to do mine. How, good-by ! ” 
CHAPTER XIII. 

FIFTY-TWO. 

In the black prison of the Conciergerie the doomed of 
the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the 
weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon 


FIFTY-TWO 


215 


on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. 

Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself 
with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the 
Tribunal . 1 In every line of the narrative he had heard 
his condemnation. 

He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he 
had known nothing of her father’s imprisonment until he 
had heard of it from herself, and that he had been igno- 
rant as she of his father’s and uncle’s responsibility for 
that misery, until the paper had been read. Next to her 
preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, 
and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to 
their dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in 
Heaven, to comfort her father. 

To her father himself he wrote in the same strain ; but 
he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and 
child to his care. And he told him this very strongly, 
with the hope of rousing him from any despondency or 
dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might 
be tending. 

To Mr. Lorry he commended them all, and explained 
his worldly affairs. That done, with many added sen- 
tences of grateful friendship and warm attachment, all 
was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was 
so full of the others that he never once thought of him. 

He had time to finish these letters before the lights were 
put out. When he lay down on his straw bed he thought 
he had done with this world. 

He awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious where 
he was, or what had happened, until it flashed upon his 
mind, “ This is the day of my death!” 

Thus had he come through the hours, to the day when 
the fifty-two heads were to fall. 


Place of trial. 


216 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the 
clock struck the numbers he would never hear again. 
Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven gone for- 
ever, twelve coming on to pass away. He walked up 
and down, softly repeating their names to himself. 

Twelve gone forever. 

He had been apprised that the fatal hour was Three, 
and he knew he would be summoned some time earlier, 
inasmuch as the tumbrels jolted heavily and slowly 
through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep 
Two before his mind as the hour, and so to strengthen 
himself in the interval that he might be able, after that 
time, to strengthen others. 

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on 
his breast, he heard One struck away from him without 
surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. 
Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his self-possession, he 
thought, “ There is but another now,” and he turned 
to walk again. 

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. 

The key was put in the lock and turned. Before the 
door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low 
voice, in English: “ He has never seen me here; I have 
kept out of his w r ay. Go you in alone ; I wait near. Lose 
no time! ” 

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there 
stood before him, face to face, quiet, intent upon him, 
with a light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary 
finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. 

There was something so bright and remarkable in his 
look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted 
him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But he 
spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner’s hand, 
and it was his real grasp. 


FIFTY-TWO 


217 


“ Of all people upon earth, you least expected to see 
me? ” he said. 

“ I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely be- 
lieve it now. You are not” — the apprehension 1 came 
suddenly into his mind — “ a prisoner? ” 

“ No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one 
of the keepers here, and in virtue of it, I stand before 
you. I come from her — your wife, dear Darnay.” 

The prisoner wrung his hand. 

“ I bring you a request from her.” 

“ What is it? ” 

“ A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, ad- 
dressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so 
dear to you, that you well remember.” 

The prisoner turned his face partly aside. 

“ You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what 
it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply 
with it — take off those boots you wear, and draw on these 
of mine.” 

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind 
the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, 
with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and 
stood over him barefoot. 

“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to 
them; put your will to them. Quick! ” 

“ Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never 
can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness.” 

“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but 
do I ? When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me 
it is madness, and remain here. Change that cravat for 
this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, 
let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out 
your hair like this of mine! ” 


Idea. 


218 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


With wonderful quickness, and with a strength, both 
of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he 
forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was 
like a young child in his hands. 

“ Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot 
be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been at- 
tempted and has always failed. I implore you not to add 
your death to the bitterness of mine.” 

“ Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? 
When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and 
paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to 
write? ” 

“ It was when you came in.” 

“ Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. 
Quick, friend, quick!” 

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat 
down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his 
breast, stood beside him. 

“ Write exactly as I speak.” 

“ To whom do I address it ? ” 

u To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast. 

“ Do I date it? ” 

“No.” 

The prisoner looked up at each question. Carton, 
standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked 
down. 

“ ‘ If you remember,’ ” said Carton, dictating, “ ‘ the 
words that passed between us long ago, you will readily 
comprehend this when you see it. You do remember 
them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.’ ” 

He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner 
chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the 
hand stopped, closing upon something. 

“Have you written ‘ forget them’?” Carton asked. 


FIFTY-TWO 


219 


“ I have. Is that a weapon in your hand ? 5 ’ 

“ No; I am not armed.” 

“ What is it in your hand ? ” 

“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but 
a few words more. ” He dictated again. “ ‘ I am thank- 
ful that the time has come when I can prove them. That 
I do so is no subject for regret or grief.’ ” As he said 
these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand 
slowly and softly moved down close to the writer’s face. 

The pen dropped from Darnay’s fingers on the table, 
and he looked about him vacantly. 

“ What vapor is that? ” he asked. 

“ Yapor?” 

“ Something that crossed me? ” 

“ I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. 
Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry! ” 

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties dis- 
ordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. 
As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an 
altered manner of breathing, Carton — his hand again in 
his breast — looked steadily at him. 

“ Hurry, hurry! ” 

The prisoner bent over the paper once more. 

“‘If it had been otherwise’” — Carton’s hand was 
again watchfully and softly stealing down — “‘I never 
should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been 
otherwise ’ ” — the hand was at the prisoner’s face — “‘I 
should but have had so much the more to answer for. If 
it had been otherwise — ’ ” Carton looked at the pen, and 
saw that it was trailing off into unintelligible signs. 

Carton’s hand moved back to his breast no more. The 
prisoner sprang up, with a reproachful look, but Carton’s 
hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton’s left 
arm caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he 


220 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


faintly struggled with the man, who had come to lay down 
his life for him; but within a minute or so, he was 
stretched insensible on the ground. 

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his 
heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the pris- 
oner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with 
the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then he softly called, 
“ Enter there! Come in ! 55 and the spy presented himself. 

“ You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled 
on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper 
in the breast: “ is your hazard very great? ” 

“Mr. Carton,” the spy answered, with a timid snap 
of his fingers, “ my hazard is not that , in the thick of busi- 
ness here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain.” 

“ Don’t fear me. I will be true to the death.” 

“ You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale 1 of fifty-two is 
to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I 
shall have no fear.” 

“ Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of 
harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, 
please God! Now, get assistance, and take me to the 
coach.” 

“You?” said the spy, nervously. 

“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go 
out at the gate by which you brought me in ? ” 

“Of course.” 

“ I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and 
I am fainter now you take me out. The parting inter- 
view has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened 
here often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. 
Quick! Call assistance! ” 

“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling 
spy, as he paused for a last moment. 


1 Count. 


FIFTY-TWO 


221 


“ Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; 
“ have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through 
with this, that you waste the precious moments now? 
Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place 
him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. 
Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but 
air, and to remember my words of last night, and his 
promise of last night, and drive away! ” 

The spjr withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the 
table, resting his forehead on his hands. The spy returned 
immediately with two men. 

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter 
they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. 

“ The time is short, Evremonde,” said the spy in a 
warning voice. 

“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of 
my friend, I entreat you, and leave me.” 

“ Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “ Lift him, 
and come away.” 

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining 
his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any 
sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was 
none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along 
distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that 
seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, 
he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock 
struck Two. 

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their 
meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were 
opened in succession, and finally his own. A jailer, with 
a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, “ Follow me, 
Evremonde! ” and he followed into a large dark room at 
a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the 
shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he 


222 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


could but dimly discern the others who were brought 
there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; 
some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless mo- 
tion; but these were few. The great majority were 
silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground. 

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some 
of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man 
stopped, in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowl- 
edge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of dis- 
covery: but the man went on. A very few moments 
after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, 
a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of color, 
and large, widely opened, patient eyes, rose from the seat 
where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to 
him. 

“ Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her 
cold hand, “ I am a poor little seamstress, who was with 
you in La Force.” 

He murmured for answer: “ True. I forget what you 
were accused of?” 

“ Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I am inno- 
cent of any. Is it likely ? Who would think of plotting 
Avith a poor little weak creature like me? ” 

The forlorn smile with which she said it so touched 
him that tears started from his eyes. 

“ I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have 
done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic, 
which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my 
death ; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evre- 
monde. Such a poor weak little creature! ” 

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm 
and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl. 

“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I 
hoped it was true.” 


FIFTY-TWO 


223 


“It was. But I was again taken and condemned.” 

“ If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you 
let me hold your hand ? I am not afraid, but I am little 
and weak, and it will give me more courage.” 

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a 
sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed 
the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched 
his lips. 

“Are you dying for him?” she whispered. 

“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.” 

“ Oh, you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger? ” 

“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.” 

The same shadows that are falling on the prison are 
falling, in the same hour of that early afternoon, on the 
Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out 
of Paris drives up to be examined. 

“ Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers! ” 

The papers are handed out and read. 

“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which 
is he?” 

“ This is he ” ; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, 
wandering old man pointed out. 

“Apparently the Citizen Doctor is not in his right mind? 
The Ee volution fever will have been too much for him ? ” 

“Greatly too much for him.” 

“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. 
French. Which is she ? ” 

“This is she.” 

“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evre- 
monde; is it not? ” 

“It is.” 

“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. 
Lucie, her child. English. This is she ? ” 


224 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ She and no other.” 

“ Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now thou hast kissed 
a good Republican; something new in thy family; re- 
member it! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. 
Which is he?” 

“He lies here in this corner of the carriage.” He, 
too, is pointed out. 

“ Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon? ” 

“It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is 
represented that he is not in strong health, and has sepa- 
rated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of 
the Republic.” 

“ Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are 
under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out 
at the little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. 
Which is he?” 

“ I am he. Necessarily, being the last.” 

It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous 
questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands 
with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of 
officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage, and 
leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it 
carries on the roof; the country people hanging about 
press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a 
little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held 
out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who 
has gone to the Guillotine. 

“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.” 

“One can depart, citizen?” 

“ One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good 
journey! ” 

“ I salute you, citizens. And the first danger passed! ” 

These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry as he clasps 
his hands and looks upward. There is terror in the car- 


FIFTY-TWO 


225 


riage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of 
the insensible traveller. 

“ Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be in- 
duced to go faster? ” asks Lucie, clinging to the old man. 

“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not 
urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion.” 

“ Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! ” 

“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not 
pursued.” 

Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, 
ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open 
country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven 
pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side. 
Sometimes we strike into the skirting mud to avoid the 
stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes we stick 
in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience 
is then so great that in our wild alarm and hurry we are 
for getting out and running — hiding — doing any thing 
but stopping. 

Out of the open country, in again among ruinous build- 
ings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, 
cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. 
Have these men deceived us and taken us back by another 
road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank 
Heaven, no. A village. Look back, look back, and see 
if we are pursued! Hush! the posting house. 

Leisurely our four horses are taken out; leisurely the 
coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with 
no likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely the 
new horses come into visible existence, one by one; leis- 
urely the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the 
lashes of their whips; leisurely the old postilions count 
their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dis- 
satisfied results. All the time our overfraught hearts 
15 


226 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest 
gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled. 

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and 
the old are left behind. We are through the village, up 
the hill, and down the hill, and on the low watery grounds. 

The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is be- 
ginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks 
they are still together; he asks him, by his name, what 
he has in his hand. Oh, pity us, kind Heaven, and help 
us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued! 

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying 
after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole 
wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far, we are pur- 
sued by nothing else. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE KNITTING DONE. 

In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two 
awaited their fate, Madame Defarge held darkly ominous 
council with The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the 
Revolutionary Jury. 

“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this 
Doctor, I. He may wear his head or lose it, for any 
interest I have in him; it is all one to me. But the Evre- 
monde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and 
child must follow the husband and father.” 

Madame Defarge beckoned the juryman and The Ven- 
geance a little nearer to the door, and there expounded 
her further views to them thus: 

“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of 
his death. She will be mourning and grieving. She will 
be in a state of mind to impeach the justice of the Re- 


THE KNITTING DONE 


227 


public. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies. 
I will go to her.” 

“ What an admirable woman; what an adorable 
woman! ” exclaimed Jacques Three, rapturously. “ Ah, 
my cherished! ” cried The Vengeance; and embraced her. 

“ Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, plac- 
ing it in her lieutenant’s hands, “and have it ready for 
me in my usual seat. Keep me my usual chair. Go you 
there straight, for there will probably be a greater con- 
course than usual to-day.” 

“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The 
Vengeance with alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You 
will not be late? ” 

“I shall be there before the commencement.” 

Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that 
very moment waiting for the completion of its load, had 
been planned out last night, the difficulty of taking Miss 
Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry’s attention. 
Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, 
that Miss Pross and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave 
the city, should leave it at three o’clock in the lightest - 
wheeled conveyance known to that period. Unencum- 
bered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, 
and, passing it and preceding it on the road, would order 
its horses in advance, and greatly facilitate its progress 
during the precious hours of the night, when delay was 
the most to be dreaded. 

Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real 
service in that pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it 
with joy. 

“Now, what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss 
Pross, whose agitation was so great that she could hardly 
speak, or stand, or move, or live: “ what do you think of 
our not starting from this courtyard ? Another carriage 


228 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken 
suspicion.” 

“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as 
you’re right. Likewise wot I’ll stand by you, right or 
wrong.” 

“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “ Would 
it be much out of the way to take me in near the great 
cathedral 1 door between the two towers?” 

“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher. 

“ Then, like the best of men, said Miss Pross, “go to 
the posting-house straight and make that change.” 

With an encouraging nod or two, Mr. Cruncher im- 
mediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left 
her by herself to follow as she had proposed. 

The having originated a precaution which was already 
in course of execution was a great relief to Miss Pross. 
The necessity of composing her appearance, so that it 
should attract no special notice in the streets, was an- 
other relief. 

Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness 
of the deserted rooms, and of half -imagined faces peeping 
from behind every open door in them, Miss Pross got a 
basin of cold water, and began laving her eyes, which were 
swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, 
she could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute 
at a time by the dripping water, but constantly paused 
and looked round to see that there was no one watching 
her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried out, 
for she saw a figure standing in the room. 

The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water 
flowed to the feet of Madame Defarge. By strange stern 
ways, and through much staining blood, those feet had 
come to meet that water. 


Notre Dame. 


THE KNITTING DONE 


229 


Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “ The 
wife of Evremonde; where is she?” 

It flashed upon Miss Pross’s mind that the doors were 
all standing open, and would suggest the flight. Her 
first act was to shut them. There were four in the 
room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself 
before the door of the chamber which Lucie had oc- 
cupied. 

Madame Defarge’s dark eyes followed her through this 
rapid movement, and rested on her when it was finished. 
Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about her; years had 
not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness, of her 
appearance; but she, too, was a determined woman in 
her different way, and she measured Madame Defarge 
with her eyes, every inch. 

“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of 
Lucifer,” said Miss Pross in her breathing. “ Neverthe- 
less, you shall not get the better of me. I am an English- 
woman.” 

Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still 
with something of Miss Pross’s own perception that they 
two were at bay. She saw a tight, hard, wiry woman 
before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen, in the same figure, a 
woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. 

“ On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a 
slight movement of her hand towards the fatal spot, 
“ where they reserve my chair and my knitting for me, 
I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. 
I wish to see her.” 

“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss 
Pross, “ and, you may depend upon it, I’ll hold my own 
against them.” 

Each spoke in her own language; neither understood 
the other’s words; both were very watchful, and intent 


230 


A TALE OP TWO CITIES 


to deduce, from look and manner, what the unintelligible 
words meant. 

u Woman imbecile and pig-like,” said Madame De- 
farge, frowning. “I take no answer from you. I de- 
mand to see her. Either tell her that I demand to see 
her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to 
her ! ’ ’ This with an angry explanatory wave of her right 
arm. 

“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should 
ever want to understand your nonsensical language; but 
I would give all I have, except the clothes I wear, to know 
wdietlier you suspect the truth, or any part of it.” 

Neither of them for a single moment released the other’s 
eyes. Madame Defarge had not moved from the spot 
where she stood when Miss Pross first became aware of 
her; but she now advanced one step. 

“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. 
I don’t care an English Twopence for myself. I know 
that the longer I keep you here, the greater hope there 
is for my Ladybird. I’ll not leave a handful of that dark 
hair upon your head if you lay a finger on me! ” 

But her courage was of that emotional nature that it 
brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was 
a courage that Madame Defarge so little comprehended 
as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she laughed, 
“you poor w r retch! What are you worth? I address 
myself to that Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and 
called out, “ Citizen Doctor! Wife of Evr6monde! Child 
of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool, an- 
swer the Citizeness Defarge! ” 

Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some disclosure 
in the expression of Miss Pross’s face, whispered to Ma- 
dame Defarge that they were gone. Three of the doors 
she opened swiftly, and looked in. 


THE KNITTING DONE 


231 


“ Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hur- 
ried packing, there are odds and ends upon the ground. 
There is no one in that room behind you! Let me look.” 

“ Never! ” said Miss Pross, who understood the request 
as perfectly as Madame Defarge understood the answer. 

“ If they are not in that room they are gone, and can 
be pursued and brought back,” said Madame Defarge to 
herself. 

“ As long as you don’t know whether they are in that 
room or not, you are uncertain what to do,” said Miss 
Pross to herself ; “ and you shall not know that, if I can 
prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know 
that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.” 

Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on 
the instinct of the moment, seized her round the waist in 
both her arms and held her tight. It was in vain for 
Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross, 
with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much 
stronger than hate, clasped her tight, and even lifted her 
from the floor in the struggle that they had. The two 
hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her face; 
but Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the 
waist, and clung to her with more than the hold of a 
drowning woman. 

Soon Madame Defarge’s hands ceased to strike, and 
felt at her encircled waist. “It is under my arm,” said 
Miss Pross in smothered tones; “you shall not draw it. 
I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I’ll hold 
hold you till one or other of us faints or dies! ” 

Madame Defarge’s hands were at her bosom. Miss 
Pross looked up, saw what it was, struck at it, struck out 
a flash and a crash, and stood alone — blinded with smoke. 

All this was in a second As the smoke cleared, leav- 
ing an awful stillness, it passed out on the air, like the 


232 


A TALE OF TWO. CITIES 


soul of the furious woman whose body lay lifeless on the 
ground. 

In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss 
Pross passed the body as far from it as she could, and ran 
down the stairs to call for fruitless help. Happily, she 
bethought herself of the consequences of what she did 
in time to check herself and go back It was dreadful to 
go in at the door again; but she did go in, and even went 
near it, to get the bonnet and other things that she must 
wear. These she put on, out on the staircase, first shut- 
ting and locking the door, and taking away the key. 
She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe 
and to cry, and then got up and hurried away. 

In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door-key in the 
river. Arriving at the cathedral some few minutes be- 
fore her escort, and waiting there, she thought, what if 
the key were already taken in a net, what if it was iden- 
tified, what if the door were opened and the remains dis- 
covered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to 
prison, and charged with murder ? In the midst of these 
fluttering thoughts, the escort appeared, took her in, and 
took her away. 

“ Is there any noise in the streets? ” she asked him. 

u The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked 
surprised by the question and by her aspect. 

“ I don’t hear you,” said Miss Pross. “ What do you 
say ? ’ 5 

It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; 
Miss Pross could not hear him. “ So I’ll nod my head,” 
thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed; “ at all events she’ll see 
that.” And she did. 

“ I feel,” said Miss Pross, “ as if there had been a flash 
and a crash, and that crash was the last thing I should ever 
hear in this life.” 


THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOREVER 


233 


“ Blest if she ain’t in a queer condition!” said Mr. 
Cruncher, more and more disturbed. “Wot can she 
have been a-takin’ to keep her courage up ? Hark ! There’s 
the roll of them dreadful carts ! Y ou can hear that, miss ? ’ ’ 
“ I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to 
her, “nothing. Oh, my good man, there was first a 
great crash, and then a great stillness, and that stillness 
seemed to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be broken 
any more as long as my life lasts.” 

“ If she don’t hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now 
very nigh their journey’s end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glanc- 
ing over his shoulder, “it’s my opinion that indeed she 
never will hear anything else in this world.” 

And indeed she never did. 


CHAPTER XY. 

THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOREVER. 

Alono the Paris streets the death-carts rumble, hollow 
and harsh. Six tumbrels carry the day’s wine to La 
Guillotine. 

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of 
the tumbrels, and faces are often turned up to some of 
them, and they are asked some question. It would seem 
to be always the same question, for it is always followed 
by a press of people towards the third cart. The horse- 
men abreast of that cart frequently point out one man in 
it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know 
which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbrel, with 
his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits 
on the side of the cart and holds his hand. He has no 
curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always 
speaks to the girl. Here and there, in a long street of 


234 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move 
him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair 
a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily 
touch his face, his arms being bound. 

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of 
the tumbrels, stands the spy and prison-sheep. He looks 
into the first of them: not there. He looks into the 
second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he 
sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into 
the third. 

“ Which is Evremonde? ” said a man behind him. 

“ That. At the back there.” 

“ With his hand in the girl’s? ” 

“Yes.” 

The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillo- 
tine all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde! ” 

“Hush, hush! ” the spy entreats him timidly. 

“And v r hy not, citizen?” 

“ He is going to pay the forfeit; it will be paid in five 
minutes more. Let him be at peace.” 

But, the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evre- 
monde! ” the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned 
tov r ards him. Evremonde then sees the spy and looks 
attentively at him, and goes his way. 

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow 
ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on 
into the place of execution, and end. In front of it, seated 
in chairs as in a garden of public diversion, are a number 
of ivomen, busily knitting. On one of the foremost chairs 
stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend. 

“ Therese! ” she cries in her shrill tones. “ Who has 
seen her? Therese Defarge! ” 

“ She never missed before,” says a knitting- woman of 
the sisterhood. 


THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOREVER 


235 


“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, 
petulantly. ‘ 6 Therese ! 5 ? 

“Louder,” the woman recommends. 

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she 
will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a 
little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. 
Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering 
somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done 
dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills 
they will go far enough to find her! 

“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her 
foot in the chair, “ and here are the tumbrels ! And Evre- 
monde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here! 
See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready 
for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment! ” 

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do 
it, the tumbrels begin to discharge their loads. The 
ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash ! 
— A head is held up, and the knitting women, who scarcely 
lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could 
think and speak, count One. 

The second tumbrel empties and moves on; the third 
comes up. Crash! — And the knitting- women, never 
faltering or pausing in their work, count Two. 

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress 
is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her 
patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he prom- 
ised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing 
engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks 
into his face and thanks him. 

“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so com- 
posed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint ol 
heart ; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts 
to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope 


236 


A TALE OE TWO CITIES 


and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me 
by Heaven.” 

“ Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your 
eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.” 

“ I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind 
nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.” 

“ They will be rapid. Fear not! ” 

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, 
but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice 
to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children 
of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, 
have come together, on the dark highway, to repair home 
together, and to rest in her bosom. 

“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am 
I to kiss you now ? Is the moment come ? ” 

“Yes.” 

She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless 
each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he re- 
leases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy 
is in the patient face. She goes next before him — is gone ; 
the knitting-women count Twenty-two. 

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: 
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall 
he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall 
never die.” 

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many 
faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts 
of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like 
one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty- 
Three. 

They said of him, about the city that night, that it was 
the peacefulest man’s face ever beheld there. Many 
added that he looked sublime and prophetic. 


THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOREVER 


237 


One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe 
— a woman — had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, 
not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts 
that were inspiring her. If he had given any utterance 
to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been 
these : — 

44 I see Barsad, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, 
the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have 
risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retrib- 
utive instrument before it shall cease out of its present 
use. 1 see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising 
from this abyss, and in their struggles to be truly free, in 
’their triumphs and defeats, through long, long years to 
come, I see the evil of this time, and of the previous time 
of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expi- 
ation for itself, and wearing out. 

44 I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, 
useful, prosperous, and happy, in that England which I 
shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, 
who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but 
otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing 
office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their 
friend, in ten years’ time, enriching them with all he has, 
and passing tranquilly to his reward. 

“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in 
the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see 
her an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of 
this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, 
lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know 
that each was not more honored and held sacred in the 
other’s soul than I was in the souls of both. 

4 4 1 see that child who lay upon her bosom, and who 
bore my name, a man, winning his way up in that path 
of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so 


238 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light 
of his. I see the blots I threw upon it faded away. I 
see him foremost of just judges and honored men, bring- 
ing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know, and 
golden hair, to this place — then fair to look upon, with 
not a trace of this day’s disfigurement — and I hear him 
tell the child my story with a tender and a faltering voice. 

“ It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever 
done ; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have 
ever known.” 























































































































































































